


The Color Red

by Rifa



Series: The Red Thread [1]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination, Blood Magic, Body Horror, Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, Disordered Eating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied Sexual Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Recovery, Red Lyrium, Rescue, Reunion, Sad Hawke, Slavery, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Tevinter Imperium, Unrequited Love, Venatori, lyrium experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 181,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rifa/pseuds/Rifa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danarius is successful in capturing Fenris only months before the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall. Fenris is returned to Tevinter where his memory is lost and a Venatori plot results with red lyrium burning in his brands. But while Fenris might have forgotten his time in Kirkwall, Hawke has not. But as the Venatori move into the south, using Fenris in their plot, It will take years and support from the Inquisition in order to bring Fenris back to himself. That is, if there is anything left of him to save.</p><p>Extreme slow-burn with the promise of a hopeful ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note in case its not clear, I fudged the DA2 timeline slightly so that Hawke and Fenris are together when the events from 'Alone' take place for my own narrative convenience. Special thank you to Bullfinch for being an amazing beta reader.

—

 

The Hanged Man had erupted into chaos.

Fenris unsheathed his sword as mercenaries clamored down the back stairwell. Felt his companions mirror him and covered his back as the tavern’s patrons pulled dark cloaks away to reveal slaver armor underneath. The sound of chains rattled in Fenris’ ears as he tried to clear his mind. 

He had expected the mercenaries and the slavers despite his best attempts at hope. He had held onto the possibility that today was the day he would learn about his forgotten past, would be able to reclaim what had been taken from him.

He had never expected _Danarius_ himself.

His former master stood at the foot of the tavern’s stairs, cold anger set deep in his face as Fenris took in a slow steady breath. He swallowed the terror down, his own declarations and tried to prepare for what he knew was coming. Danarius lifted a hand and waves of shock engulfed Fenris. A wave tore through him, sharp past his flesh and straight to the lyrium within. He froze, steeling himself as his mind retreated, taking away his fear so he could fight. The lyrium was searing under his skin. Painful. But that wasn’t from the shock, or the rage or the terror. It was the spell that Danarius was raining down on him from that one outstretched hand. The spell ripped through him and straight into the lyrium, making it pulsate with energy as it was sapped. Danarius was draining him, leeching the lyrium’s power from his own body.

Fenris’ sword trembled in his hands, his teeth grinding against the spell as it reached farther and farther into him. Raking his power and stoking the lyrium into a rebellious frenzy. No part of him wanted to go back to Danarius, not even the lyrium living under his skin.

Finally it relented and Fenris almost fell to the ground, gutted. But he could not falter, not now. Even if his lyrium had been rendered useless he could still fight back. He didn’t need it to wield his sword. He staggered for only a moment, grip tightening, testing his weight before lunging forward. The others lagged behind him, also affected by the spell. No doubt the magic pulled their very blood and life force in the absence of pure lyrium. But he couldn’t dwell, if Danarius was here, it meant this was his last and only chance to finally be free. The man wouldn’t have come all this way for nothing.

Danarius vanished from his line of sight, but his sword found a mark, clashing with another. A mercenary or a proper Tevinter body guard? The warrior parried his movements matching Fenris’. Tevinter then, and there were many. Too many for him to take alone, and there was still Danarius to worry about. Fenris had fought alongside him, knew what the magister was capable of, but Danarius knew him even better and would exploit his weaknesses if given the chance. 

No time to think about it. One objective at a time. Fenris parried with the first warrior, hitting a stride before he feigned, sliced through armor into flesh as the body guard turned the wrong way. One last slash split him up to his chin, bled the man into the old floorboards, coating the soles of Fenris’ feet as he turned to access. 

A few of the other warriors had been slowed by Varric’s bolts, but still they advanced on the dwarf, who had the decent idea to barricade himself behind the bar. A crackle of electricity ran through the air, static crawling on Fenris’ skin before it was nullified. Wiped from the air by Danarius. Anders was retreating, cursing under his breath as he deflected a sword blow with his staff. And Hawke was… Fenris’ eyes darted past the splintered tavern tables and the mercenaries practiced attacks but Hawke was no where to be seen in the fray.

A pommel struck his temple and Fenris fell back a step. He hadn’t even registered the man approaching him. His vision blurred a second before the pain came, blood falling from his brow down towards his neck. Foolish. He should stay focused. He pulled on the weight of his sword to cleave at the offender, watched him through squinted eyes as the sword cut through the shoulder. He kicked the man off his blade, leaving a bloody foot mark across the breastplate. Fenris wiped his own blood away from his eye. 

“I could use some help here!” Anders’ was pressed into a corner with three warriors baring down on him, defending but unable to cast. Fenris cursed under his breath, casting an eye about the tavern looking for Danarius, or Hawke. He spotted neither before he went to help the mage.

He caught one by surprise, a downward slash collapsing her to the ground. His blade pinned her between the armor’s plates at her shoulder, threatening to pry the arm off before a swift heel cracked her neck. Fenris deflected strikes from either side. A swing caught one in the side, slamming them to the wall, too close to Anders for comfort but the warrior slipped from the blade easily as he fell dying to the floor. A wave of heat from Fenris’ side as Anders finally managed a spell in his defense, a wailing cry as the bodyguard’s flesh cooked in his armor.

Anders was injured but shook his head when Fenris met his eyes. Fine then. More men were pouring into the tavern, how many had Danarius hired? Fenris scanned again, blinking against an explosive flame that caught on the armor of Varric’s pursuers, their cries only adding to the chaos. Still he couldn’t find Danarius. Or Hawke. Where was Hawke? A couple of the warriors Fenris had felled had red-tailed arrows jutting from their necks, evidence of Hawke finishing off Fenris’ marks. 

Something inside Fenris ached to just see him, to just know he was at his side. His stifled terror longing for a moment of comfort. But more men were advancing on him, blades drawn, Tevene curses reaching his ears. Now was not the time. He had to focus. He had to kill Danarius, wherever he was in the fray, no matter how many Fenris had to bleed to find him. He squared his stance, held his blade strong against the onslaught, quickly dismissed the automatic tactics he planned that needed the lyrium. Without it he wasn’t much more than a highly skilled sellsword, he could have used its advantage. Danarius knew that, had tipped the scales in his own favor. Fenris needed to end this.

His mind went blank, clear, his forms came back to him and the first attacker was down within seconds. A slow, steady mantra slipped from his lips, old tevene directing his energy and his steps. His movements fluid as he weaved through two men’s attacks like water, a focused strike to a man’s side nearly splitting him in half. Fenris dodged a counter from the other, stepping back and twisting to weather a weak slice to his upper arm. The blade cut against leather and flesh, but shallow, the warrior’s attack leaving an opening Fenris stepped into. His blade ran through the man, catching on shattered bones as Fenris felt his own blood run down his arm. 

One left on him, biding his time and circling. Fenris struck and his sword shrieked, grinding against the man’s blade. The warrior was strong, Fenris’ arms shaking as he fought to overpower him. A prickling brushed against his skin, the lyrium itching where it lay weak inside of him. A spell cast through the air catching at it. He shook the distraction, managed to shove off the swordsman but swung at empty air as the man leapt back. Fenris’ sword was up again, but a sound caught his ear, ringing. A quiet sound across the battle that screamed and dug deep into his very nerves to _listen_.

Fenris looked across the tavern, old instincts at work, to see Danarius and _Hawke_.

He stared, transfixed, as if everything had slowed. Time stretching out around him. Hawke was a stride away from Danarius, dagger in hand. Hawke thought he could get a drop on him. _Stupid_. Stupid to try and take him down alone, foolish to think he could simply sneak up behind the mage. Danarius had already turned, the smallest sound of annoyance having caught Fenris’ attention. A flick of the hand and a barrier blocked Hawke’s hurried thrust. The dagger impaled on magic. His eyes darting up as Danarius cast again. The smallest gesture and Hawke was thrown, a long trail of blood following him to the floorboards. Fenris knew the spell. His insides turned to ice. 

A sharp hard pain penetrated Fenris’ thigh. Feeling and time reeled back all at once. A dagger. His muscles frenzied around it, pain mounting. The warrior from before, must’ve pulled the dagger out when Fenris wasn’t looking. The dagger was dragged out, twisting on flesh as Fenris cried out. _They wanted him alive_. Rage and terror flooded him, the image of Hawke falling replaying in his mind as he swung recklessly at his attacker, hacking franticly against armor until his blade caught and tore the man apart. 

Fenris struggled on his leg, the blood pouring into his leggings, turning to see that Hawke had not gotten up. His body left bleeding on the familiar wooden floor. 

Fenris limped towards Hawke. Nothing else entered his mind except getting to his side, protecting him from the battle. His wound oozed, every step a fresh cascade of pain as more and more men with steel facades got in between him and Hawke, weapons raised. He fought. His own blood hidden under his enemies’. He was a walking ghost, his movements automatic, his mind pulling back when his body could not. He thought back to a mere hour ago as he and Hawke walked to Lowtown, Hawke’s hand squeezing Fenris’ as he assured him _everything will be fine_. Further, to the morning, when the sunlight warmed his toes against the rug in Hawke’s sitting room. Eggs and toasted bread for breakfast. Hawke’s hand taking his from where his fingers fidgeted nervously against the red token. The night before. The day before. Years all at once. He needed Hawke to stand, to open his eyes, to-

Anders was at Hawke’s side. Good, he could heal him. Get his wounds closed and back on his feet. Fenris wavered for a moment, letting a brief feeling of relief pass over him, taking its strength as he turned to growl, grit his teeth and impale the next bodyguard that tried to weaken him. More blood splayed upon the floor, but more men were appearing. How many did Danarius bring? How long before the Hanged Man was filled with demons at Danarius’ beckoning, when would the dead stumble from the ground to seek vengeance? Fear crawled up Fenris’ spine. He turned to see Anders’ glowing hand passing over Hawke. Fenris swallowed, his hopes fading as every second passed. If only he could do something. All he was good for was tearing men apart. 

A thought rose in front of him. _Maker please_. It sounded like someone’s else’s thought. But he gripped onto it, desperate. He never asked for anything, but he needed Hawke. Needed Hawke at his side.

Fenris fought more men, his chest heaving, exhausted and bleeding and without the lyrium to draw from. A spell passed him and the lyrium surged weakly in protest. The hair on his arms stood as a magic static crawled across the space, Danarius materializing in front of him. Fenris’ sword became heavier in his hands. A barrier rippled from the air into a light that cloaked Danarius. But it did not shield Fenris from his gaze. Those eyes that had followed Fenris through years of nightmares and paranoid glances over his shoulder. Fenris snarled, baring his teeth like a wild animal. Everything inside of him lighting up into flames, the hatred and rage burning inside himself as the grip on his blade tightened, weakness forgotten.

“Hawke’s-” Anders voice caught him. A panic, a crack, something wrong. The fire in Fenris died. His face fell before Danarius. But he was too frightened to pull his gaze from the man’s eyes. Unable and unwilling to tear away, despite the weakness painted across his face. He waited, stilled, Danarius’ eyes boring into his own. 

“He’s… he’s gone.” Anders choked.

Something shattered. The absence of feeling like the fall before hitting the ground. 

“ _What_?” Varric’s voice from where he had barricaded himself behind the bar. Hoarse with what was only a suggestion of the tide of emotions Fenris felt inside himself.

Danarius smiled. “Ha, so your ‘Champion’ falls.”

Anders was stammering like a man who had lost a limb. Fenris was gutted, the drained lyrium in his body heavy as lead. A darkness crept up inside of him, an abyss spreading where he had once gathered light. And still Danarius held Fenris’ gaze. A chill ran down his spine at the look in the man’s eyes. Something inside of him, louder now in the dark, whispered ‘ _punishment_ ’. 

“Come now pet.” Danarius said calmly. The authority in his voice struck Fenris’ ears. Danarius knew he owned the battle now. The last of his hired swords were holding back, watching Fenris through metal faces. Danarius extended a beckoning hand, the magic danced between his fingers threatening. The man could summon demons, send those Fenris had killed back after him with a simple flick of his wrist. He could do worse. He was ready to win his prize.

“Come to your senses Fenris, or will you have me end their lives as well?”

“No.” Anders’ voice from behind Fenris, trembling and broken. “Hawke is dead because of you Fenris, none of us would have been here.”

He heard Anders scramble to his feet, then the sound of a body dragged back across the floor. “You’re on your own.”

The words felt like a shackle locking into place. Fenris couldn’t hope to take down the remaining men as well as Danarius. Not without his lyrium, not with his wounds still pouring blood and his limbs quivering. Not without Anders, not without support.

Fenris couldnt break his eyes from Danarius, but he didn’t hear a response from Varric. Not that one rogue with a crossbow would save him. But the silence was telling, stretching until Fenris could feel his heartbeat in his throat. A mechanical click and whine caught his ear, a sound he recognized as Bianca being effectively sheathed and slung on the dwarfs back before footsteps followed after Anders.

“I’m sorry.” Varric’s voice was broken. The words trembled in Fenris’ head as he heard the tavern door shut.

Alone then. Fenris was alone.

“Would you throw your life away?” Danarius sneered, a challenge thrown at Fenris’ feet. He stared into the man’s eyes, trembling. The very ground was crumbling beneath him, torn away. Everything he had threatened in his old Master’s steel stare. His freedom, his friendships, his life. Hawke. _Hawke_.

“Yes.” Fenris growled, his grip tightening, his feet digging against wood before launching himself at Danarius. He would not go back. He couldn’t. He would rather be dead. Rather be struck down by now than live another moment in a world without Hawke. There was nothing left for him, but he would not return to Danarius. Regret gripped him, despair, terror, rage, until all emotion drained with the pull on his sword.

His blade hit the barrier, repelling his blow. The air rippling before Danarius’ impartial stare. Fenris cried out, as if he battle cry would frighten the magic into submission. He threw his sword against it again, again, again. Every time being pushed back as if he were battling a stone wall. The men did not advance, Danarius simply watching as the blows became weaker, shaken, useless as Fenris’ various injuries dragged on him. Made him tremble once more as the lost blood made his head swim against tides of shock and weakness. Another blow and the sword shook, Fenris let it ricochet from his hands to clatter across the blood-soaked floor.

 _Hawke_. The thought rung in Fenris’ mind. Fragments of memories scattering. Hawke’s hand in his. Breakfast at the estate. Tangled sheets. Straying hands. The red favor tied to his wrist. Nothing else was real. Nothing else mattered. There was nothing else.

Danarius stepped forward and Fenris was only able to take one trembling, painful step before he swayed where he stood. Weak. The man advanced on him, eyes predatory but Fenris could not look away. The barrier passed over him, encapsulating him within, static on his skin, lyrium itching but useless as the mage reached out and touched Fenris’ bloodied cheek. The touch impossibly soft as everything inside burned with repulsion. Something still alive inside of him screamed at him to _do something_. But finally his gaze fell away from Danarius, casting down to the red-stained floor.

Fenris gritted his teeth. He knew what was next. And he knew he was powerless to even try and fight against it.

“My poor little wolf.” The voice was too close. Too real. Fenris’ mind struggled to escape him, to vanish from behind his eyes to somewhere safer. 

The hand stroked him. He fought his instinct to jerk away. Knew it would only delay what was inevitable.

“So lost and confused without me.” Danarius’ voice was almost against his ear. Fenris trembled. He thought only of Hawke. “Don’t worry, I’m here, I’ll set you right again.”

The blood on his cheek tingled, electrified against his skin. He heard footsteps as the hired men encircled them, locking him in, preparing. Fenris steeled himself as magic slipped through the wound on his temple. Blood magic alive inside of him, worming its way in hot and slick. Fenris swallowed hard, swaying again on his feet as the magic reached his mind. Tricking his body into failing, into weakness.

Fenris’ eyes fluttered as something stronger than sleep gripped him at his throat. Completely at the power’s mercy as Danarius tilted back his head. Slowly, softly, watching Fenris’ eyes as the blood magic forced a darkness into him. Heavy and thick down his spine. A memory flickered and Fenris remembered this, knew the blood magic would drag him into a sleep that might last weeks. A small death. He almost accepted it.

“That’s it..” Danarius’ voice trailed off until it was nothing more than a muffled suggestion. Until Fenris’ vision was a haze of red and glowing magic. His strength slipped from him, crumbling towards the floor. He blinked as blood reached his fingertips where it had pooled on the floor, red filling his vision. Close, suffocating, until sight was severed, leaving him in darkness.

It was over. But those thoughts died peacefully, giving into the void that was growing, coming to claim him. But before he gave in, Fenris forced air into his lungs, as if about to be submerged, and thought of Hawke. His touch. His voice. Hawke. He cradled the thought against him in the darkness, holding onto that promise Hawke had made a mere hour ago.

_Everything is going to be fine._


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke gasped for air.

His fingers twitched and seized, sheets balling in his hands. Pain seared to the surface awakened by his thrashing. Claws down his chest, tearing, steel prying a wound open. Metal spikes against his ribs, piercing deep rattling his breath as he gasped for air again. He kicked out against it, back rigid and arching as the instinct to fight flared inside him. Something ripped, something knotted and pulled as he was battered, a passenger in his body as it panicked against the pain. 

Glowing hands steadied him firm on his shoulders anchoring him against the onslaught. The light blurred Hawke’s vision as his body slowly relaxed. The panic eased, the pain soothed. Lulled by magic, as if he were lowered into a cool stream, it ran over him smoothly and filled every crack. He blinked softly at the ceiling and the flickering firelight. 

He sunk back into the bed, recognizing the softness of his own mattress and the cotton of his sheets. T he magic rolled off of him and his body ached, heavy and confining but without the visceral memory of injury. A soft groan escaped him as he settled into it. Something flickered under the surface. Something important. He blinked hard as he tried to see past the the fog of memory that was apparent now that the pain had subsided. 

A hand wrapped around his. He gripped it tight, rolling his gaze to his side. Anders’ face. Hawke frowned, squinting. Not who he expected.

“Hawke,” Anders’ voice was quiet, weighted on the edges. He rubbed an eye and adjusted his seat in the darkness of Hawke’s bedroom. It was night, he had been sleeping. “You’re awake…”

Hawke blinked hard, let out a sharp intake of breath as he tried to sit up. Pain stabbed him in the chest and he fell back, gritting his teeth as Anders stuttered a sound of worry.

“No don’t get up,” He was on his feet, still grasping Hawke’s hand as his eyes darted up and down Hawke’s bundled body. “He got you bad, I’m surprised you woke up this early on. You have a lot of recovering to do.”

Hawke was confined by the pain. He gingerly tested his arms and found them unaffected, bringing his free hand up to rub at his exhausted face. What happened to him? Everything was a blur, sleep heavy upon him and refusing to be shaken. He remembered pain, unbearable pain in a red flash. It was impossible to measure in his mind, like a dream, something that eluded him the closer he got to it. He groaned again, felt Anders squeeze his hand, and Hawke remembered.

Danarius. Fenris’ old master turning to him, a barrier ripping through the air a breath from Hawke’s face. A hand in the air and then the pain. The memories scattered, falling to the floor and peeling in all directions as Hawke scrambled to assemble it all again. Danarius in the Hanged Man. Men all around them unsheathing weapons. Magic raking his body of strength. Danarius in the Hanged Man. The man’s voice rose, grinding against Hawke’s skull, “And this is your new master?”

“Where’s Fenris.” Hawke’s voice cracked, erupting into a dry cough that rattled his wounds. Black spots leapt into his vision, exhaustion stalking him. 

Anders stilled, staring at the far wall. Hawke felt a sickness rise in his stomach as Anders sat back down, avoiding his eyes.

“He’s…” Anders’ voice trailed, his shoulders tensing.

Hawke shook his hand from the mage’s grip.

“Where-” His voice gave, weak and dry before he coughed again.

Anders finally met his gaze, guilt heavy in his eyes. Hawke wished for nothing more than the strength to shout, to rise from his bed, to shake the man until he told him. A cold fear was growing inside of him, reaching up from his stomach into his throat, dread already whispering in his ear.

“We had to get you out of there,” Anders started, his voice on the edge of pleading. “You would have died Hawke. Its a miracle you survived at all. I had to make a decision, I had to. Please Hawke, you have to understand, please.”

Hawke pushed at the bed, heaving, his wounds screaming as he willed himself upwards. His legs were stiff and sore - cramping in protest as he shifted them from the tangle of blankets. Anders leapt up, pushing back on Hawke’s shoulders as he forced himself up on shaking limbs.

“Hawke - No - you can’t, you’ll kill yourself!” Anders cried as he threw his weight against Hawke, fighting him back into the bed. 

“Get off!” Hawke groaned. He refused to be stopped, pushing against the searing pain in his chest, against the iron pikes that stabbed deeper and deeper against gut and bone inside him. His vision doubled and danced as he shoved at the thin mage. He had to get up, he couldn’t lie here, he needed to get to Fenris. He needed to find him. He couldn’t leave him alone. What if Danarius got him? What if he was alone somewhere, in need of his help. Broken from battle and far away. Hawke had to get up, injuries be damned. He had to… He had to…

The weight of exhaustion fell over him, impossibly heavy on his head as his eyes fluttered. No, no he couldn’t rest now. He had to get up. He had to fight. But the energy escaped him, his arms going slack against Anders as black swirled in his vision and sleep called to him. Sleep spell. Damn Anders. First abandoning Fenris and now turning his magic against Hawke like this. Hawke dug his fingers into the mage’s robes, all his remaining strength tightening on Anders’ thin arms.

“Fenris-” The last half of his name lost to the dry rasp of Hawke’s unused voice. A blackness took him as he fell back against the bed, dragged down into dreamless sleep.

—————

“What did you tell him?”

Hawke woke to the sound of voices just outside his door. Sleep slid from him more easily than the last time, his mind clearer as he took in his familiar surroundings. A small fire burned warming the room and he could see the soft light of day behind the sway of the drawn curtains. Some time must have passed, and yet his body felt as heavy and exhausted as it had when he was magicked into sleep. The pain was muted, just under the surface, a subtle movement enough to disturb it into something that seared and stabbed.

So Hawke kept still, blinking hard as he strained to hear.

“I told him he was badly injured, that he had to recover.” Hawke could barely make out Anders’ hushed voice. He sounded sullen, scolded.

“Yes, you said that already-” Varric’s voice, louder, an edge of frustration or anxiety. “You don’t expect me to believe that Hawke didn’t ask about Fenris.”

Fenris. 

Fear struck Hawke in his heart. He hadn’t forgotten, but sleep had softened the thought. Now it was as sharp as ever, a blade pierced through him that would slowly bleed him until it was pulled. He grabbed at the blankets, abandoning thoughts of recovery.

There had been a pause in the conversation outside, then Anders’ voice “I told him we had to make a choice.”

“’We?’” Varric’s voice raised, a pained laugh tumbling from him as Hawke weakly kicked the last of the sheets off his body, saw the bloodied bandage around his chest for the first time. “YOU made that choice! I wasn’t given a choice, I believed you!”

Hawke hefted his torso upright, moving by degrees as he gritted his teeth . The wound, whatever it was Danarius had done to him, was unlike any pain he had borne. Every movement pulled in a way that suggested he would be ripped in two, that his insides would break as brittle glass to grind him into dripping blood. But he couldn’t just lie here. That wasn’t an option.

“What would you have done differently?” Anders voice rose to match Varric’s, venom rising. “Let Hawke die on the floor while you tried to kill a Tevinter magister on your own? You’ve been blaming me all this time, I might as well have raised Hawke from the dead and you haven’t shown an ounce of appreciation or thanks.”

“Anders…” Aveline’s voice, long-suffering. There was a pause and Hawke imagined her shaking her head stepping between the two of them, taking command of the conversation. “Did you tell Hawke how long its been?”

Hawke froze. Something rose up to his throat and tightened. He found his feet and, without an ounce of thought for his fragile state, rose from the bed. The world spun instantly, his stomach churning as his legs gave. The impact was sharp, as if his glass insides had shattered when he hit the ground. He cried out against the pain that ripped over him, its claws digging into him as he struggled on the floor. 

 

The door opened and hands hurriedly lifted him from the ground. He could barely hear Anders’ warnings to handle him gently over his heartbeat thudded in his ears. He had to blink against hot tears to see the room move around him as he was placed back on the bed. His world was commanded by pain, his breath tight in his cracked chest, pumping suffering into his entire body as he struggled to gain hold of it. He was too weak to fight, feared that he would black out again either by his body giving in or by Anders well-meaning hand. 

His hands groped until it found an armored wrist, and he forced a word past his gritted teeth, “Fenris.”

Aveline’s hand gripped his, the strength of it centering him. “Anders can’t you do something?” she said, turninge to the fretting mage. He nodded and waved a hand before Hawke could protest. Hawke felt the familiar softening of healing magic, the air slowly relaxing in his chest when he realized he would not be forced into sleep again.

The sensation of splintering in his chest subsided, retreating under the surface. He was careful to keep his torso still as he looked upon his friends with clear eyes, swallowing hard before he said again “Fenris.”

Varric shot a look at Anders, the tension Hawke sensed from their conversation had clearly grown over time. The thought caught in his throat as he turned to Aveline instead, “Where-” Sentences rose in his mind faster than he could choose or voice them. He gripped her hand tighter, “What happened?”

Aveline sighed heavily, holding his gaze, “Hawke I…” Her face twisted. Hawke knew she wasn’t there at the Hanged Man, she had other duties that kept her from accompanying them. Fenris had been so anxious, his nerves frayed for days, he had wanted her there. But Hawke knew she would be straight with him, considering the arguments he heard a few moments earlier. “Hawke I’m so sorry.”

Hawke stared at her his grip still tight on her hand. He silenced a thousand voices in his head, clouding them out until his mind was honed to a razor’s focus. 

“What happened?” His voice was low, thick, his eyes turning to Anders and Varric where they watched him with apprehension. They didn’t want to tell him, and they must have good reason. Their silence was sticking to him. His skin prickling as the seconds passed.

“Fenris is gone.” Aveline said it for them. The words struck Hawke. It was incomprehensible, Hawke felt unreal. As if he was watching himself from outside his body, his own breath foreign in his lungs. The fears he had buried since waking in the dark with Anders unearthed. 

“Danarius took him after you fell.” Aveline continued.

Hawke was dizzy, the only thing keeping him from welcoming the dull drag of exhaustion was the need for answers. 

“The spell he used,” Anders spoke up, Hawke couldn’t raise his eyes from his own empty hand. “It was unlike anything I had ever seen. It would have killed you if I didn’t drag you out of there. The wound refused to close, your insides were a mess, it took everything I had to keep you breathing.”

A sound of frustration from Varric, “Look, as glad as I am that you kept Hawke alive,” he started, his words measured, holding back something vicious. “I personally wouldn’t have announced to everyone there that Hawke was dead.”

Hawke looked up in horror, eyes meeting Anders who visibly recoiled, “You what?” He remembered Danarius’ hand raised to him, the flood of red-hot pain before blackness. He imagined Fenris, holding back an entire company of men with his sword, seeing him hit the floor. Fenris fighting harder, Anders crying out that Hawke was dead. Hawke’s stomach twisted, holding back bile at the thought. Fenris thinking he was dead. Fenris fighting and losing, Fenris dragged back to Tevinter in shackles, head bowed, thinking that Hawke was gone. Murdered by the bastard who had already taken so much from him.

“I didn’t have a choice!” Anders’ threw his hands in anger, a practiced wounded and offended expression painting him. Hawke turned away from him, locking his jaw, not wanting to hear another stream of excuses. “They would have finished you off if I tried to heal you there, they would have cut me down, it was the only chance I had-”

“Fenris-” Hawke cut him off, tried to use Aveline’s hand as leverage to lift himself from the bed but couldnt find the strength, “You let him think I was dead? You- you-” He turned to Aveline, desperate, his emotions and thoughts colliding hard and fast, “He’s gone? Danarius took him?”

Aveline’s face hardened, looking away from Hawke as she nodded. Varric ran a hand over his face and paced the room, shooting Anders another look as he did. 

Breathing hurt and Hawke’s heart raced, his sleep-addled brain fighting to keep up and make a plan. “We have to save him.” It went without saying, of course, but the looks on his friends faces made his words stutter, “W-why haven’t you- we need to go. Now. We can’t leave him to that bastard, we-”

“Hawke.” Aveline’s voice was clear, her grip on his hand tightening again to try and anchor him. “You need to rest, you are in no condition to-”

A strangled laugh escaped Hawke, “I can’t leave him, he can’t think I’m dead. Do you have any idea what Danarius will-”

“No Hawke.” Aveline’s voice was a command and Hawke’s voice died in his throat as his eyes burned. “You would only hurt yourself. And…”

Aveline’s gaze broke from Hawke, her jaw squaring before returning to his desperate stare, “It’s been over a week Hawke, they are well on their way to Tevinter. There’s nothing you can do right now.”

A silence fell on the room. Hawke’s breathing was loud in his ears, increasing as every second passed. Over a week. He had been on death’s door for over a week. Trapped in unconsciousness as every day, every minute, Fenris was taken farther and farther from him. Out of reach. And Hawke was here, unable to even stand. Unthinkable that he could close the distance to save Fenris from what the monsters in Minrathous had in store for him. 

“Aveline and I have been doing whatever we can,” Varric broke the silence, “The records were already destroyed but we know they sailed out of Kirkwall right after the fight was over. They won’t cross the border for another week at the least but its going to be difficult to track someone like Danarius once he’s back in Minrathous.”

“If they had traveled on land I might have been able to intercept them,” Aveline added, “They were prepared to make a quick escape.”

Their voices faded as Hawke remembered the long nights he and Fenris had shared, the set in Fenris’ jaw as he spoke of Danarius, of Tevinter. The look of beaten hatred and old fear in his eyes when he recounted the horrors he had faced, his voice devoid of the emotions that danced in his eyes. Remembered their hands entwined, Fenris’ breath against him, he shivered.

“I have to go after him.” Hawke said quietly. “As soon as I am well enough I’ll go.”

“You can’t.” Aveline cut in, “I need you here, Kirkwall needs you. You’re the only voice of reason left.”

“You won’t be able to fight for at least another two weeks.” Anders gestured to Hawke’s bandaged chest. “And we still don’t know what condition you’ll be in, you might not be strong enough to make a journey like that.”

“Even if all that weren’t true,” Varric stepped up, his face serious. “What are you going to do? Walk straight into Minrathous and demand him back? Fight through an entire city of mages? You know that place has golems guarding the city’s entrance right?”

“So I just forget about him then.” Anger rose up in Hawke, all his hopeless fears and loss twisting into something burning and venomous. “We just leave him, who cares anyways? Its too much trouble. He probably deserves whatever they do to him.”

“No one is saying that.” Aveline gripped Hawke’s hand. He tried to shake her off.

“Then what?” Hawke’s voice rose, the edges rough from his week of recovery. “I can’t give up on him, I can’t let this happen to him…”

His eyes burned imagining Fenris alone. Without hope, dragged back to a life of slavery. Back to his old master. The memory of Danarius addressing Hawke unfolded in his mind’s eye, the repulsion and hatred that rose inside him. He felt sick. 

“Listen Hawke,” Varric folded his hands on the bed, business-like. “I already have my sources working on this. Its a pain in the ass to track magisters who don’t want people getting into their business but not impossible. The way I see it, you take the time you need to recover, we watch the bastard’s movements and the moment we find an opening we go and get Fenris back.”

Hawke weighed the words, looking from Varric to Aveline to the blanket that had been pulled up over him. He wished he could go back, undo his mistakes that led to him lying here useless, that lead to Fenris being taken. The longer the truth sank in the more his mind bucked against it, fighting in the only way it could to. As if he could refuse this version of events, go back to how it was the day before they walked into the tavern. 

“How long would that take?” Hawke’s voice was thin. 

Varric exhaled, him and Aveline exchanging looks. “These things take time.”

Hawke winced. The worst scenarios rising in his mind at the thought. 

“But,” Hawke swallowed, “we can’t wait long, what if he…”

His thought trailed away into darkness, into a future he could not bare to even consider. 

“He’s strong Hawke.” Anders said quietly, “He won’t go down without a fight.”


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris witnessed his capture in fragments.

He was bound by magic. Trapped far within himself, flooded in a black ocean he could not escape. The darkness had him, its tides dragging him under, far away from the world and himself. Its depths heavy and all encompassing. Any strength of will he had was lost, unable to break the grasp the magic had on him. He was its prisoner, stripped of thought and consciousness. Everything he had held under the surface and drowned. Heavy, heavy. The void flooded into him and made him its new vessel.

He was powerless. Save for the moments when light would crack the surface. A murmur of sound would break through. A roll of movement back in his body. And he could reach for himself again even as the darkness tried to drag him back down.

The waking world appeared in small moments, washed out and dulled as if viewed through a fogged window. Sunlight blinding eyes he could not blink as armor was removed. Rough hands at the leather straps. The distant lull of waves. A passive observer in his own body. Everything distant, dreamlike. And then it would all come back to him sudden and sharp as the moment one hits the ground.

Danarius had him.

The details evaded him while a dread grew deep inside him. The darkness rumbling, sensing his fear, ready to pull him under its waves again. He would fight it but his body was too far to be reached, binding him further as he scrambled to assemble the pieces. Danarius had him, he was going back to Tevinter, and Hawke…

And the darkness would devour him again.

All thought would be stripped away. Each piece of him removed until the fight in him quietly died. The light would break the surface, sound traveling through fathoms to him time and time again. But he would always fall back. The blackness would call and Fenris, increasingly, would willingly follow. In the deepest, darkest parts of his heart he would hope that this time the void would finally kill him.

It never did. But in the absence of the world beyond, the darkness would offer him dreams.  
In dreams Fenris was at Hawke’s side. They walked through fluid landscapes of stone and sand and earth. They passed the wounded coast, their steps crossing miles. They entered Qunari-occupied Kirkwall with weapons unsheathed, blood rolling from cobblestone to sandy beach as foliage unfurled around them until they were in Seheron. Their bed was fragrant earth, the ferns folding down into sheets around them. A touch and a shared breath. When dreams slipped into blackness Fenris could still feel Hawke’s presence. Eternal and unchanging in his mind.

He would still occasionally fall back into his own body, the images indistinguishable from his dreams as they blended together on the edges. A swinging lamp in the edge of his vision, the groan of a storm beaten ship around him. Someone’s hand bracing against the wall. Fenris felt the rolling swell of the ocean around him, unable to stop his body falling from where it lay. He felt no impact when his deadened body hit the floor. There was a shout of surprise. He distantly wished the waves would take the ship under as the blackness in his mind had taken him. As the magic tore his body from him. A stranger met his eyes and started, they must have seen the weak spark in his eyes.

Darkness pulled over him, whisking him back to the void. Waves encapsulating him. It was tender, caring, the last thing in the world that would show him kindness. He accepted the darkness again. And again. And again. Returning to its numb safety, taking shelter in it. Hoping every time that this would be the final time. That it would not abandon him to the real world.

Here he could be with Hawke. Even if he never turned to look at Fenris in the dreams, even if his hands felt clammy in Fenris’, even when Hawke was three paces ahead of him and the distance would never close no matter how fast Fenris ran after him. Even then it was better. Wasn’t it? The reason why faded, just out of reach, just beyond him.

Fenris woke to the sound of gulls. Squinting against sunlight. The sky passed over him as he was carried, his body still weighted as lead and unreachable. He blinked. A shadow loomed, breaking the light and Fenris blinked again. Voices rolled over him, muffled as if underwater, he didn’t care to try and hear them. He saw the gulls on the wind, weightless against the blue sky. They had docked. It was too late. Any chance of throwing himself into the ocean gone.   
Slowly his mind found pieces to assemble into proper thoughts. They were docked, he was being moved, if they were in Tevinter borders then he must’ve been fading in and out of consciousness for at least two weeks. Danarius clearly hadn’t wanted to take any chances with him. Years and a small fortune to capture him. Danarius had gone himself, endangered himself to secure his prize. To drag him back here. He was in Tevinter.

Hawke. The thought broke from the depths. Hawke fighting for him. Hawke hitting the ground limp and bleeding. Hawke dead. Hawke’s blood spreading on the floorboards. Alone, Fenris was alone. No one was coming. 

Movement jostled his body and he was dropped to the ground. The lyrium was glowing, the sensation of it was lost under the residual blood magic, but Fenris could just distantly register its light. A delayed panic pulled at his heart, its beat heavy and abusive in his chest. Helpless, captured, men standing over his useless body. His limbs unreachable, limp. Robes brushing the ground where his face had fallen. He wanted to fight, to shout and run until his feet bled. But it was all taken from him, the thought fading as another spell settled heavy on his chest.   
The darkness greeted again.

Not quite the same. Now he was upright, blinking slowly, unable to find thoughts to gather. Everything far away. Voices echoing until they faded. He swayed on his feet and was steadied by a fist in his hair. Fenris dully marveled that he could feel his body at all, the foreign sensations slipping back to him slowly. Weight and gravity returning to him as if he were wading out from the ocean’s depths. But everything was fogged, far away, the darkness at his back whispering and yet he unable to fall back into its embrace.

A shove and he was walking, clumsy on sore unused muscles, and directionless. He felt fear but it was submerged, its colour faded from whatever spell had him this way. He knew that he just had to get to where these faceless men wanted him and then, perhaps, they would let him rest. The sunlight was gone, they walked in the shadows of tall ancient spires distantly familiar. Fenris blinked slowly as images blurred before his eyes, light and shadow casting against shapes obscuring them further.

Another slow blink and Fenris noticed the heat on his skin, the familiar humidity. The ground under his feet was hot where the sun touched it and mercifully cool in the shadows. He breathed in slowly, could feel his lungs expand, and flicked his eyes up cautiously. Danarius’ estate loomed. One its many angles that Fenris had committed to memory, the sight struck against his mind as flint on tinder. The fire did not catch, but the small swell of fear settled sick in his stomach. His eyes down again. His hands were heavy, a quick glance caught the runed steel shackles. He swallowed. His steps were still unbalanced but his body was returning to him slowly. He was weak, aching with exhaustion and weeks of misuse. He was in no condition to fight or resist.

His senses were returning by degrees even as a part of his mind resisted return, forced a distance between Fenris and the world. He tried to determine who was escorting him, cautious glances to his sides and strained hearing painting a dim picture of his company. Two swordsmen in front of him, at least three behind who weren’t above shoving him forward if he faltered, and further behind two mages. His insides stung, unable to know who the mages were, if one of them might be Danarius boring his eyes into the back of Fenris’ head. But he dared not look over his shoulder to invite the wrath that followed his shadow. He kept his head down. He recognized the tile beneath him with a resigned dread, counting the steps until he reached the threshold. 

Fenris’ head was swimming as he entered the estate. The familiarity settled into him, sharp as claws, it was as if he never left Minrathous. The estate smelled the same, something he could never have described properly but felt greet him the moment he stepped through the doors. Spices, smoke, the leaves the slaves laced the linens with, freshly cut orchids, iron, blood. All were inadequate descriptors. The place smelled of his past. Or, he supposed, his life.

The hall was empty, the black marble floor cool under Fenris’ feet, a small comfort after the sweltering heat of summer outside. There was no one to greet them, but he could hear the soft scuffle of feet against stone, slaves in the wings. They appeared as shadows, bent elves with open palms to serve the mages at Fenris’ back. The company stopped and Fenris bowed his head further, clouding out the words and orders passed between the humans. Decisions made of where he would go. None of the voices belonged to Danarius. He craned away from them, preferring the muted oblivion that was slipping away from him. He watched as narrow adorned feet silently appeared again, his gaze tipping up enough to see glasses filled with wine and cups brimming with cold water. The slaves moved like a flock of birds, seamless and in tune. Fenris watched with new eyes, saw the clockwork he recognized in their movement, part of a bigger machine he was about to be fitted back into. 

 

The elves did not look up at him, not even a quick glance. Their eyes trailed along the floor, pausing for only the briefest moment at Fenris’ bare, branded feet before passing over him. He wondered if any of them had been serving Danarius long enough to remember him. He, regrettably, could not recall or recognize a single one of them. Slaves in Danarius’ charge did not always last long and the names of the slaves he did know had been long rejected in favor of new memories. A pang of guilt stabbed at Fenris as the last of the slaves passed him by. 

A shove at his back and Fenris stumbled forward, following the boots of the men in front of him down the familiar halls. He didn’t look up but in his minds eye he rebuilt the estate from the ground up. The memory of the place falling easily into place from where he had forced it into the recesses. The halls did not trail forever into darkness as he had dreamed for the past years. They were solid and bordered with rooms and spaces that all had purposes and rules Fenris remembered like the lines in his hands. The men led him past one of the kitchens, Fenris could hear the bustle and smell the aromas that were consistent with his memory, nothing changed in years. Down a barren hall used only by the slaves. Fenris realized where they were taking him and a twisted smile pulled at his mouth. To the basement. The far east side, where the cells were where the slave master would break or disciple slaves. Where the ones deemed unusable would be left until Danarius had use for them again. Until Fenris would drag them by the neck up the stairs to throw them at his master’s feet, no longer a slave or an elf, only as useful as their blood would make them.

Fenris bit back a vaguely hysterical sound as his feet hit the cold stone steps. His mind alive with the memories of thrashing and sobbing and cries for mercy. It was all going to come full circle wasn’t it? All those years he tried to forget or atone for the things he had done, the things Danarius had rendered from him. All that time forcing himself to learn that he wasn’t responsible, that he could repay his faults in the blood of slavers, all useless now. He was going to be locked down here. Proper justice, proper balance. He swallowed hard, breathed deeply against the dampness and copper in the air. He didn’t deserve this. There was no sense or divine hand at work here. This was cruelty. 

But was that so bad? What could Danarius do to him now that would cause more harm than had already been done? Fenris imagined Danarius dragging him up those stone steps, laying him on a slab to take the lyrium from him, to shred the blood from his body. Fenris smiled weakly. At least then it would all be over.

The cell was small. Damp stone underfoot as the men locked the steel door behind him. A small barred window above Fenris’ head let in a few streaks of sunlight. They left his hands bound but had not bothered to chain him. It would be pointless anyway. He could easily slip the restraints and use his lyrium to step through the barred door. But he was weak. Exhausted just from the heavy steps it took to bring him here. And more than that, he couldn’t find a reason to try and escape. He dropped slowly to his knees, his movements still clumsy, and curled down on the stone floor. Relief. Just a little bit, he would happily take any degree of comfort offered him. 

The lyrium laid dormant under his skin. Burning and itching in powerless frustration, fighting to return to its strength. The lyrium was a liability here, another set of restraints embedded in his body. The years he had spent mastering and reclaiming its power slipping entirely out of his hands. Danarius knew how to control him with it, how to drain its power completely, ‘til he was shaking on the floor. He thought again of using the lyrium to escape once it recovered. But even if he phased through the cell door, what would he do then? Kill the men standing watch outside with his bare hands? Kill every armed man in the halls, silence every slave that would shriek at his appearance? Attempt to vanish in the streets of Minrathous, avoiding those that would recognize him and the price tag around his neck? Even if he were to kill or avoid them all, he would have to swim to the mainland on his weak limbs. But perhaps drowning would be preferable.

Sleep fell upon him easily, dreamless in his exhaustion. By the time he woke again his mind was clear, untouched by meddling blood magic. His cell was dark but he had no way of knowing how long he had slept. He tried to push himself up from the floor by his bound hands, but his arms trembled and dropped him back to the stone. His breath caught as he took stock of himself for the first time since he had been captured. His body was weak, muscles empty of his usual strength. He had been incapacitated the entire way to Tevinter and his body had taken the brunt of his abuse. When was the last time he had eaten? An ache rolled through him at the thought, his throat dry. They must have been using magic to keep him from wasting away entirely, letting the absence build a need in him that they could use.

Fenris pressed his face against the cold stone, a small smirk breaking on him. They thought they could starve him into obedience? 

With some difficulty he managed to prop himself against the wall. The stone at his back pressing into his weak body, threatening bruises from mere contact. He wondered how long he had to wait until someone came to beat him, how long before they cracked a whip across his back. How long he would have to sit and wait until Danarius came to poison him with blood magic, run hands through his hair and offer him his strength and dignity back. The dread he had felt was slipping away, the fear that struck him upon his old master’s return was gone. There was no more cruelty Danarius could inflict, nothing else he could take that would wound Fenris further. 

Hawke’s death played in Fenris’ mind again. Over and over as the hours passed. Hawke hitting the ground, limp and bleeding. Fenris always too far to protect him, unable to reach his side. He could not grasp his hand, never got to say goodbye. The man he loved stolen from him, the last moments taken by Danarius. Another void inside of him Fenris could never hope to fill. Fenris’ anxieties had made him consider Hawke’s possible death for years. With every year that passed the thought had become more unbearable. Hawke’s death had become to mean Fenris’ own demise. The thought of living without him unbearable.

He flinched against a cruel voice inside of him, one he had silenced in the past but was strengthened now. “ _It wasn’t love._ ” It whispered, clawing at the inside of Fenris’ mind, “ _Not really. You are a slave. Always will be. You could not imagine a life without Hawke because he was your new ‘master’ wasn’t he? You used to think the same about Danarius._ ”

It wasn’t true. He swallowed the bitter thought, took it deep inside of himself in the only place he had left to hide anything. He pulled his legs close to him, leaned his cheek against his knee as he watched the lights of morning come through the window. 

Fenris thought of Kirkwall. Imagined himself waking in the mansion, a whole world away from where he was now. If he were in Kirkwall now he might have, in time, found a way to pick up the pieces in Hawke’s wake. If he had not been captured. If those he thought were his friends had not abandoned him in his time of need. He might have found purpose again. He could have picked up more mercenary work, negotiated for higher pay as Hawke and Varric taught him, walked away with coin he could spend. He might have still gone to the Hanged Man, drinking and playing cards with the others, even if Hawke was no longer there. He could have had a life still. One he had held so dear and yet now felt as if he hadn’t appreciated enough.

He was in Tevinter now. He was property again. The chain of his life slack around his neck, ready to tighten and drag him down until he kneeled willingly at his old master’s feet. But he was not the frightened adolescent he once was. He was not moldable clay that could be shaped to Danarius’ will. He was cold stone, unflinching, unyielding and now he had nothing left to lose. 

Let them do their worst. Let Danarius try to bend him, drain him of his lyrium and his blood. Fenris did not care. Let them try to destroy him, let them succeed, but he would not submit. He would not let them have him. Fenris held onto the thought, a piece of wreckage in a storming sea. The one thing he could hold tight. One of the only things that he could keep control of. 

He didnt dare think of how long he could hold onto it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait on this update, this one was difficult to write. Warnings for disordered eating and suicidal ideations, Fenris is not well in this chapter.

On the first day Fenris was brought water. He had been drifting between thought and absence for hours when the door’s hatch was undone. He tensed, fists curling where they were shackled in his lap, but it was only a slave. A shame caught in him as he pulled his legs closer to himself, made himself smaller as bare feet paused where they stepped. She couldn’t have been older than thirteen, her eyes fixed on the floor as she knelt to place the jug in the middle of the cell. Fenris remembered how young slaves were the ones who tended to this hall, so that they would see what happened to those who were unsatisfactory or disobedient first hand. Ingraining lessons early. Fenris couldn’t summon the energy to rail against the injustice of it. She was just a child, shaking as she knocked on the cell door for the guard to let her out. 

He swallowed the thought of his own youth, or what little he remembered of it. Not now. 

The door closed and he was alone again. He shifted on aching limbs towards the jug. The water was fresh, droplets beading from where the jug had been held under water. He hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was until now. His throat was dry, his lips chapped and his head was throbbing. The jug was cool to the touch, the chain from the shackles stretching across its width as he lifted it with trembling arms. 

He paused before putting it to his lips, wondered if it might have been poisoned. There could be anything swirling unseen in the clear water, concoctions to render him docile and weak. He knew of potions the slave trainers would use to fog an elf’s mind, make them helpless within it, clinging for stable ground and order. Which, of course, the trainers were too happy to arrange. Pushing him to dehydration so he would willingly take in something to help them break him was very likely.

Fenris considered, weighed the possible dangers before drinking down the water in eager gulps. He had no memory of ever being broken. Nothing that suggested he was anything but devastatingly loyal. And somewhere inside of him this felt like a challenge. Even if the water was poisoned against him, it wouldn’t be enough. The water dripped down his chin as he finished it off, having no mind for rationing it out, he had to take the comforts where he could. The water changed nothing in him and no one came to his cell.

On the second day the young elf girl returned with a platter. Her hands shook, the containers on the platter trembled along as if they were just as frightened of the branded elf in the cell. She knelt to one knee to safely place the platter on the floor and left with the emptied jug. The smell filled the small space and Fenris’ mouth watered instantly. His stomach twisted in response, he was starving, whatever means they had used to keep him from wasting away during his transportation had not filled the void that clawed in his stomach. There was a small bowl of stew, the smell of spiced meat made his head swim, two rough slices of bread and a pomegranate. 

Fenris didn’t move from where he sat leaned against the wall. He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He would not eat. The idea had arisen at some point late the previous night between fitful nightmares that would not let him rest. Danarius had him and that was something he could not fight. Not anymore. And he knew it would only be so long before they found a way to bend him back into a preferred mold. Fenris was not delusional. He knew they had ways, knew there was more than one way to break a slave. One day they would break him. With blood magic or some other means.

But he did not intend to make it easy for them. He smiled against the darkness behind his eyes. Control, he had control over this. Just this. Danarius wanted his prized warrior again. Fenris would make sure his body wasted, that his muscles would fade and his bones would show. He was property again, his body was not his own, but this way it could be. He could have the control. He could ruin everything Danarius wanted, he could smirk and laugh when the old man came to see him withered and weak. Any beating would kill him. He could drag himself away from being a “prize”. He could remain himself. He would take comfort in that. Comfort in the control he would carve for himself in the small dark room.

The food went uneaten and untouched. The stew cooled and the smell faded, allowing Fenris to sleep. In his dreams he heard Danarius’ voice, the words twisted and lost under the sting of pain in his body. The lyrium ripping through him as Danarius’ hands ran down his flesh, softly, so soft. His skin crawled and he tried to tear it off with his fingertips. Something gripped his wrists and pushed him down, fear flooding him as he awaited punishment. He woke with his arms tangled around him, his wrists red where he had pulled them against the iron that held them. He exhaled, blinked back at the tears that threatened him and rolled over. He pushed his back against the rough stone wall, forced himself to remember a warmth at his back, a strong safe arm holding him through the night.

He woke to the door opening. The young elf girl toed in, stopping and staring at the untouched food. Fenris expected a reaction, but she only stared down at the platter. He wondered suddenly, with a pang of guilt, if she would be reprimanded for taking uneaten food back to the kitchen. He didn’t know, he was never made to work the way most of Danarius’ slaves did. At her age he was… 

She knelt, collected the platter and left. If it hadn’t been for the heavy sound of the steel door he might have slept through her visit entirely. Her steps were silent on the stone floor. She would do well, Fenris thought with an odd detachment. She could survive this place like that, keeping her eyes down and herself silent and efficient. Fairness and freedom did not mean anything here, only survival. Fenris almost laughed at the thought. He was actively fighting against survival wasn’t he? For the first time in his life he was trying to undo the one thing he had chased from his days of slavery into his freedom. 

Already Fenris’ body was aching in protest of this plan. His already weakened limbs sinking in, his stomach twisting in on itself. The bones in his torso felt as if they were jutting out, shuffled from their usual positions, but he knew it was his flesh sinking against them. He closed his eyes and willed the animal mind within to understand that this was necessary. It hurt. But it had to. And this was how it had to be. He had to inhabit dying flesh. He would not come around to his old master by mere offering of food. He wasn’t a base animal. His hands tightened at the idea of ‘choice’.

The cell door opened and the elf girl entered again. A new platter of food in her trembling hands. Fenris grit his teeth against the smell of roasted meat, tried to find his voice so he could tell her he wouldn’t eat it. But he had no voice, same as her. It did not matter. She knelt and placed the platter on the floor. But this time she lingered a moment longer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she darted a glance toward him. Fenris did not look back, did not acknowledge her. Found there was too much death inside of him to manage.

The girl left. The food smelled delicious and his stomach railed against him, begging for it. He pressed his eyes closed again, breathing in long shuddering breaths, trying to find the infallible focus he used to be able to call upon. He knew he was strong enough to push through, to master his own body before his enemies would. 

Days went by. At least, Fenris was fairly certain that days were passing. It was becoming harder and harder to grasp the time that was slipping past him in the small cell. Sleep was his only companion, the only one that he welcomed and took notice of. It was a reprieve of the ache and pain of living. But it was often wrought with nightmares that were becoming indistinguishable from the thoughts that haunted him while he lay awake, pressed against the stone of the cell. His wrists were bruised from the shackles, sore from when he woke after trying to fight them off in his sleep. But it was no matter. It was all a blur now.

Three more times the same young elf girl came in to take the untouched platters of food only to return with more. The second time she wiped tears on her sleeve, but Fenris could not manage to lift his cheek from the stone to respond. The third time he heard her whisper, the Tevene stinging his ears, “Please eat, please,”. She had the devotion of a priestess, delivering offerings to a dead god that would never answer her prayers. But it was too late. If Fenris wasn’t dying now, he was close. His body was fighting but he had nothing left inside of him to even try to push through. Soon it would give up. Soon the weakened lyrium would stop prickling and feed off his flesh as if it were ancient stone. Soon he would be nothing.

Agony lay against him. Pressing him deeper into the hard stone. Sleep became unconsciousness. There was no rest. There were no dreams. His body shook and withered. He needed nourishment, he needed water and he needed something he knew he would never have again. In rebellious moments between the spasms he thought of Kirkwall. He thought of his room in the ruined mansion. He thought of the familiar weight of his sword in his hands. He thought of laughter and ale. He thought of-

He stopped himself, curling his stiff knees closer to his chest, wished for the calm lull of oblivion he had felt when Danarius had first taken him.

Fenris woke when the door opened again. He couldn’t lift his face from the stone, could just see the familiar figure of the young elf in the corner of his eye. A small tension released and he closed his eyes again. The routine would continue until he was dead. Or until someone came to force feed him. That was always a possibility. He waited for his body to pull him back down into blackness until his ear twitched at an unfamiliar sound. A heavy, scuffing step. His eyes slipped opened, a small frown pulling on his face. The elf girl never made noise when she walked. Always silent. Fenris tried to get a look at her, but only saw the back of her head as she limped out of the cell and the door snapped shut behind her.

Why was she limping? Fenris’ thoughts couldn’t gain traction, not in his groggy and starving state. But it flared hot in his mind, signaling something wrong. Something important. He shifted his stiff limbs, dragged them close and forced himself to push his body up from the floor. He was weak. Weaker than he could ever remember being. His heart raced at the effort it took his shaking arms to heft him up. His stomach twisted, bile stinging the emptiness as his head throbbed. He leaned his back against the wall, swallowing in shallow breaths, running a trembling hand against his chest and stomach. He felt ribs under the thinness of his shirt. He waited for the girl to return.

The metal door groaned on its hinges and Fenris looked up. The girl had a new platter of food and was clearly limping, favouring one bare foot over a swollen one. She didn’t look towards him or seem to notice he had gotten off from the floor, her eyes blank and hands tense where they gripped the platter. Her wrists bared purple and blue bruises. They trailed up under her dress sleeve, crept from her collar to her neck, blossoming on her cheek.

Understanding spilled into Fenris’ abused stomach like a poison. She had been beaten. He remembered her tears and her hushed pleas to him. She was beaten for bringing his food back untouched. 

Guilt and anger jumped into his bones, the lyrium biting down hard as it fed off it. Fenris got his feet under him, splayed his arms against the wall to brace himself as he stood for the first time in days. Pain shot through his legs. The his own weight almost too much to bare. The girl cried out as Fenris stumbled toward her on shaking legs.

“Wait-” His voice croaked, a cough shaking him as he stumbled. His knee met stone and Fenris swore it must have cracked. His hands unthinkingly reaching and grabbing at her skirt. 

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry” Fenris’ Tevene shook on his tongue, the mantra coming too easily. He heard the metal door open but he wouldn’t pull his gaze away from the young girl’s. Fear in her eyes as she tried to back away from him in the small cell. “Please forgive me.”

Stomping of boots on stone, the sound of metal armor grinding against itself under the sound of shouting. A gauntleted hand twisted in Fenris’ hair and ripped him back. His head hit the wall and lights sprung into his eyes as he fell against the ground. His body weak. Broken. A brief flash in his mind lit up his lyrium. The light stinging and ripping his body of any energy he had left. He cried out and curled into himself, tears streaming as the guard kicked at his ribs. He was broken. He had nothing left. And in his foolish rebellion he had hurt this young girl who would never know freedom. He damaged her as he had damaged himself.

The platter was on the floor. The girl gone. The guard spat a curse at Fenris before leaving, locking the cell door behind him. Fenris’ rib was broken, if not more. The lyrium receded painfully, tensing his limbs as it took what he didn’t have left to give. He gasped a breath before a long line of shuddering sobs racked his chest. The pain was too much. The indignity and the injustice. The inevitable pressing heavy on him. There was no fight to win. He had no control. Any illusion he had otherwise was just that. He had fooled himself. He had broken himself and Danarius hadn’t even come to see him once. He was too weak to fight off anything now. All It would take is the thought of those who would be harmed if he wasted away and died in the cell. His punishment would only be transferred to others. And he could not bring himself to be indifferent. Not now. Not anymore.

Fenris pushed himself on bruised elbows and dragged himself to the platter, pulled it towards him. Some sort of meat sauce over rice. The smell made his stomach turn into a knot. He couldn’t let the girl be punished again. He couldn’t have anyone hurt because of him. Not again. The bowl was under his chin and his fingers scooped the food up, his stomach burning in demand as he pushed it into his mouth. There was no flavor, the texture made his stomach churn as it swirled in his dry mouth. His throat ached as he swallowed it down. His heart racing as he continued to shovel the food into his mouth. 

Why hadn’t he just done this at the start? What was the point in trying to exert control when he knew he had none. Never had. All of his actions since leaving Danarius had only caused him more hurt, more difficulty and anguish. He had hurt everyone who got close to him. His actions and choices damaged it all. He was incapable of anything else. Useless. Worthless. 

He scraped up the last grains of rice, licking them from his fingers as his arms shook. The tears had stopped, his body empty save for the aching lump rolling fresh in his stomach. At least the girl wouldn’t be hurt because of him again. At least she was safe. He wouldn’t get her killed. 

Hawke rose up in Fenris’ mind. His stomach flipped and before he could ready himself he was sick on the stone under him. His body retched and heaved with energy he didn’t have. Raking his insides like claws. Everything he ate spilled where he was weakly holding himself up. Hawke. The thought traveled throughout his body, trembling, the guilt and accusations flared up in his throat. He got Hawke killed. It could have been prevented if he had never gotten close to him. If he never wandered into Kirkwall. If he had never fooled him into loving him. If he had just stayed with Danarius Hawke would still be alive right now. Everything Fenris touched turned to punishment and death. He had nothing else in him. 

He woke only to be sick again. Retching air and bile onto the floor. It burned his mouth and caught in his fingertips before his forehead met the cold floor. His head was spinning, everything thin and delicate. Thoughts scattered across the floor, hiding in the dark corners as Fenris attempted to wrap weak and shackled arms around his shuddering body. He wanted it to end. This was punishment for thinking he was strong enough to fight against Danarius. Punished for refusing to eat, for seeking to steal himself away again. He couldn’t even remember why he thought it had been worth fighting. Everything he had was gone, everything worth the struggle of freedom had been torn from him. It was over.

The door opened. Fabric rustled against the floor and fear flooded Fenris. He tensed against the floor, unable to move from where his face pressed against the stone. His lyrium fought to light, spurred by a distant dying instinct to protect himself. It burned hot iron into his limbs before the light died. He tried to find his hands, found only shackles and raw bruises. He whimpered. Pathetic. The steps stopped close to his head and he recoiled and curled away. A sound of disgust from above filled him with shame. A thousand remembered torments ran through his mind. Fear stilled him.

Danarius knelt and moved the hair away from Fenris’ eyes. Fenris’ dizzy gaze met his old master’s and he failed to hold back the retch that shook him. Danarius pulled away, disgust and disapproval clear in his expression.

“Incompetent.” Fenris flinched, before realizing that Danarius was speaking to an unfamiliar man. “I leave for a few days and this is what I return to. Were you trying to kill him? He is not disposable, but you are.”

Fenris’ eyes rolled, his shackled hands gripping at exposed ribs. His old master’s voice was a torture in and of itself. Reminded him exactly where he was. He couldn’t predict what was going to happen to him now but his body screamed the trauma inflicted upon him. Things he had not even had words for before he fled Danarius. Violations that made others turn white when told. Abuse that had turned him into the destroyed fragment of a man he was now. 

Voices continued about him but the words rolled over his body. His mind fleeing. His sight turning thick and slow as he forced himself to remember soft hands caressing him. Not with cruelty, not ones that hurt and violated and pushed. Hands that adored him. Lips that sought to ease the pain. Words whispered in the dark that promised Fenris would never be alone again. That he was safe. That he would never go back.

Hawke. The thought came as a small light. Something to lead him away from the pain and terror that wracked him. The last warm thing in existence. The last of Fenris’ hope whispering, telling him he could still escape this, that he he could finally let go. 

Danarius knelt beside him again, but Fenris could no longer feel fear. He could not feel anything as his old tormentor ran fingers through his hair, hummed something that was supposed to be soothing. But Fenris was dying, letting himself be taken far from this terror.

A haze of light appeared behind his eyes, feeling returning to his limbs as it seeped through him. Healing magic. The welcoming light of death vanished, a candle blown out by the wind. The weakness and agony of his struggling body returned. He groaned against the stone, tears welling. He wasn’t allowed to leave. Danarius would never let him escape again, not in any way.

“My poor little wolf,” The man hummed again, tracing a finger along Fenris’ face. “There was no need to make this so difficult on yourself. Those years away from me has led you astray, hasn’t it?”

Fenris wanted release from his grasp. Wanted oblivion to pull him down into the death his body was just courting. He couldn’t relive all his old life again. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t do this. He whined, pitifully, unable to hold the any pretense of strength or indifference.

“It will be alright,” Danarius cooed, “Once I take these painful memories from you, undo all the damage you have done yourself, you will be at peace again. You will be my little wolf once more.”

Fenris blinked. Something animal deep inside him, weak but not broken, growled and barred its teeth at the threat. He had lost so much, had lost an entire lifetime before the ritual. And now Danarius was going to do it him again. It was all Fenris had. All traces of who he had become, all he had done. Danarius intended to take him back to a blank slate so he might reshape him again. Erase the years on the run, the years in Kirkwall, and every single memory of Hawke.

Fenris held his breath. Danarius was offering Fenris oblivion.

“Wouldn’t you like that pet?” Danarius’ eyes were searching and Fenris had nowhere to hide the fear and resignation twisting in his gut. “We can start over. I will forgive you for everything once I fix you.”

Fenris tried to swallow, seeking moisture his mouth could not provide. His lips shook as he formed the words, “Yes master.”

It was the closest thing to death that Danarius would ever give him.

And he would take it willingly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thank you so much for all your comments, bookmarks and kudos! It means the world to me!

Hawke drew back the bowstring, the extension of his arm pulling at the last threads of his wound. His grasp shook, the pain in his chest taunt as the string in his fingers. He sighted his target and adjusted, exhaling slowly between his lips as he let the arrow fly.

He missed the mark. The arrow buried in the straw target a full hand’s length from the center. He grumbled to himself as he dropped the bow to his side, wincing at the sting the motion lit in his chest. He’d only picked up his archery again a few days ago, having finally been given permission to train after over two weeks of waiting.

He had been stationed in the courtyard of his house since for as many hours of the day as possible. He had spent two weeks trapped inside, bedridden until the wound finally healed over properly and then stuck listless inside as his body slowly permitted him movement again. He had struggled to relax and let himself heal while he lay where he and Fenris had laid together. He had shuffled through the library, grasping the shelves for occasional support, while ignoring the stacked books on the table where they had been left after a lesson. The parlor still had matching armchairs pulled up close to the fireplace though the glasses from that last night had been cleared away. Hawke couldn’t look into any of the rooms in his house without seeing Fenris’ shadow. The house stifled. He couldn’t stand the constant reminders of him, the spaces Fenris had filled that were now left empty.

Another arrow flew, leaving an aching chest in its wake, and once again it missed. Hawke hadn’t had a decent shot since the injury. His chest was still healing, trailing and dragging the last of the pain through him. He wasn’t helping it by obsessively working on his shot, but it was either this or go back to running a thousand different plans and scenarios of rescue in his head. He couldn’t save Fenris without his strength back and his bow in his hands. He had to push through this, every single day was another day Fenris was taken further away from him. He couldn’t help feeling the time crawl over him, knowing each moment Fenris was unreachable, in Tevinter with him.

Two more misses and Hawke had to stop himself from throwing his bow at the target. Why couldn’t he just do it? What was it that was so hard for him to hit a target from a dozen feet away? How had literal decades of archery skill slipped through his hands? Was he so incompetent that he couldn’t shoot one straight arrow? Couldn’t manage himself in a fight now, not that he had managed himself before had he? He had failed Fenris at the Hanged Man. He had hoped to leave Danarius to Fenris, to support him with covering fire from behind and let him take control. But there had been too many hired men, coming in from all angles, and all of them were focused on Fenris.

The memory was a blur now and the details were failing him. He couldn’t stop thinking about it over the past two weeks. He remembered that he had thought he could still just back Fenris up. Remembered sinking arrows into the necks of warriors struggling and bleeding on the ground. He remembered magic at the corner of his vision, Danarius materializing at the back of the tavern and Fenris hadn’t noticed. Hawke needed to do something. He had to. He couldn’t have ignored the threat that had its eyes pointed square at Fenris’ back. 

“Hawke?” Varric’s voice pulled Hawke from his thoughts with a start. A jolt of pain surged in his chest, his hand rubbed against his house shirt to try and settle it along with his frayed nerves. 

“Varric.” He nodded curtly, his eyes averting from look Varric gave him. The sympathy and concern in his gaze wasn’t overbearing, but it was there all the same. It made him feel embarrassed, as if Varric expected more from him. 

Varric raised his brow at the target that Hawke had turned into a misshapen pincushion. “Well that’s certainly a better target to take your anger out on. At least this one won’t drink on my tab and complain about you all night.” He said, giving Hawke a knowing look before settling himself on a courtyard bench. 

Hawke moved to pull the arrows out, prickling with a sort of shame he wasn’t used to shouldering. “Did you want something? A drink or-?”

“No, no.” Varric cut Hawke off as he pulled the scattered arrows from where they pierced straw. “Listen, you gotta stop torturing Blondie. He has enough complexes without you blaming him for everything every time he comes to take care of you.”

Hawke turned sharply and marched back across the courtyard, past Varric and farther from where he was shooting before, “If he hadn’t _lied_ to Fenris…”

“But he did, and he did it to _save_ you.” Varric sat forward, adopting the air of a parent explaining something to a slow child. “We all could have died that day Hawke, but instead all four of us are alive and kicking and actually able to do something about this.” 

Varric was practiced in this argument, they had gone over this several times the past week. But while Varric’s reasonings and insights had grown and become more and more convincing Hawke could not let go of his stubborn anger and dead-end retorts.

Hawke took his stance, drew back the bowstring, “You were on my side about this before.”

“Andraste’s tits,” Varric grumbled, crossing his arms, “There aren’t any ‘sides’ Hawke, everyone is on your side! I just happened to grow up and look at the bigger picture. It helps that I listen to people and get myself outside once and awhile instead of holing myself up and moping.”

Hawke’s shot missed, even worse than before. Varric’s audience wasn’t helping. “I am outside.” He said quietly, pulling a second arrow.

“Your humor must have gone the same place your shot went.” Varric smiled, not unkindly. 

Hawke looked away, squaring his sights on the target again. “I’m not going to the Hanged Man, if that’s what you are asking.”

“Obviously.” Varric said quietly, “But shutting yourself in isn’t doing you any favors. You look like shit.”

Hawke frowned but lost his posture as he couldn’t help but smirk at the observation, it was such an understatement. “I’m healing from a mortal wound.” He struggled to keep his voice straight, hysteria creeping into him. “I feel like shit though, maker, I can’t even shoot a straight arrow.”

He corrected his stance quickly, drawing back the bowstring and releasing the arrow in one fluid motion. It missed, horrendously. 

Varric nodded, “That is terrible, you’re right about that.” He turned to Hawke, sympathy needling at him again. “You need to cut yourself some slack Hawke, you’re recovering and grieving. You’re not going to just bounce back instantly.”

Hawke was coming to personally understand Fenris’ dislike of sympathy and pity more and more. “I am not grieving.” He spat, feeling his temper rising. “Fenris isn’t dead.”

“You’re right.” Varric grinned, digging his heels in when he saw the anger Hawke was trying to reign in. “He isn’t. So you can stop acting like he is, you can get back on your feet and you know… eventually…”

Hawke shot him a look, “’Eventually’? Eventually we’ll go get him? Is that what you were going to say? We can’t wait for ‘eventually’.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a choice.” Varric slid off the bench, blocking Hawke from trying to take a frustrated shot at the target again. “I keep telling you Hawke, we need to wait for an opportunity to rescue him. That magister asshole isn’t going to drop his guard for a while, but the second he leaves Minrathous we will have a chance. Unless he heads to Seheron, you’re not allowed to go there either Hawke.”

He hadn’t even considered that Danarius would drag Fenris back to Seheron. His throat tightened as he dropped his bow, moving to run a hand down his face. As if Fenris wasn’t going to be tormented enough, he might get killed before Hawke could get back to him. He hadn’t even considered that to be a possible outcome. He couldn’t. He-

“Hawke?” Varric stepped up, grasped Hawke’s arm tightly, “Don’t do this to yourself.”

Hawke tried to take a deep breath, his lungs going ragged and tightening as his brain shuffled through every conversation he and Fenris had about his past. Settling on memories he had revisited countless time since Fenris was taken, newly remembered ones falling into place. Casual mentions of punishments that made Hawke’s skin crawl and temper flare. Blankly recalled memories of blood magic rituals Fenris had been witness to, the small quirk of his lips as he said he could remember the _names_ of the elves bled. The way Fenris had once frozen and stiffened in Hawke’s embrace, eyes staring unseeing before stumbling back into himself, apologizing. As if it was his fault. As if the torments and nightmares he had been submitted to were something he deserved.

“Hawke!” Varric’s voice came again, a jerk on his arm. Hawke blinked and realized his breathing had gone into a fevered hitch, that he had been staring at a single stone in the courtyard tile. 

He swallowed hard, shrugging out of Varric’s grasp. “I can’t leave him.” He said quietly.

“You won’t.” Varric’s face twisted with concern. “You’re too stubborn, for one. I know, we all know, you’re not going to leave him to the wolves. Blondie was right, that elf won’t go down without a fight Hawke. You need to put some faith into him, he got out of that snake nest once already.

Hawke ran a hand through his hair, tried not to think of Fenris’ fingers lingering against his scalp and failed. “Have you heard anything?”

Varric rolled his eyes and Hawke felt chided by it. “I hear a lot, but nothing about the elf yet. My cousin wrote and said Danarius was back in Minrathous, she saw him, but it’s obviously not enough to learn anything from besides ‘well I guess they went exactly where we knew they were going’. Their ship didn’t sink at least.”

Hawke frowned, “Your cousin?”

“Yeah, my cousin.” Varric shrugged.

“You have a cousin there?” Hawke’s frown deepened, “In Minrathous?”

“Did you think I was lying before?” Varric chuckled, “I do tell the truth sometimes Hawke.

Hawke rubbed at the headache that had been blossoming since Varric pulled him from his downward spiral, “I need a drink, do you want a drink?”

The house was dark and stuffy after the sunlight of the courtyard. Hawke could barely look up from the floor as he plodded inside, unable to bring himself to look at the disused and abandoned spaces he had been avoiding. He pulled his arm guard off, tossed it into a chair as he walked, tipping his bow and quiver against a wall outside of the kitchen before he stepped in. It was one of the only places in his home he could bare to spend time in now, less memories haunted him here.

Orana peeked up from a cutting board, a small shy smile crossing her face before Hawke looked away, ashamed again that he couldn’t be who he was weeks ago for anyone. Varric and her exchanged a few polite, albeit awkward, words as Hawke pulled two bottles of ale from his depleting stock. He had taken to drinking Ferelden imports lately, soaking up the nostalgia from a time before all of this. Anything that would distract him from the now.

He settled himself at the small table near the hearth, arms extending over the cool stone built out from the wall. His chest was aching in a way he knew would only be remedied by rest, or by the ale he was opening. Orana excused herself, an abstract guilt twisting in Hawke’s gut as he took his first swig. Hawke had gravitated into his house staff’s space so readily and without consideration for them. He didn’t want to be alone in the house. Didn’t want to rot in those haunted spaces. And yet he had shrugged off their sympathies, their concerned glances, had completely disregarded them. Just as he had done with his friends.

Varric sat across from Hawke, making a face at the bottle as he took it up. “So I suppose this is how you’ve decided to deal with this thing hmm? By drinking the finest of southern swamp water.”

Varric nodded sagely, smirking at Hawke before taking a drink. His reaction didn’t disappoint and Hawke found himself chuckling despite himself. “It reminds me of home.” Hawke shrugged, quiet memories of Lothering creeping up to him. Gentle, enveloping, and final. His past wasn’t something he could pine for, wasn’t something that was being harmed and hurt in his absence. Grief was simpler than what clung to him now.

“I need to get you out of this house.” Varric shook his head, favoring a friendly smirk over the sympathy Hawke could sense under the words. “Everyone misses you, we should all get together, go out and knock some heads together. It’d be cathartic!”

Hawke tipped the bottle back, let himself soften under its effects and the warmth of the hearth at his back. He was surprised that Varric was suggesting going out and fighting after Hawke had already demonstrated how shaken he was from fighting again. “If we do that the whole city will know their ‘Champion’ has turned into a sad washed up drunk, can’t shoot to save his love’s life, can’t take down a magister.” 

Varric made a face, “You think they haven’t noticed how you vanished Hawke? I dodge questions about you daily, it’s like people only talk to me now to hear about you. Strange, I know. But there are people here who need you Hawke, and they don’t have to know about this. Getting yourself back to what you’re good at is what is going to help.”

For the first time Hawke wondered what people would think of Fenris’ absence. How far would he need to step from his house into the city before someone noticed his near constant companion was was in step with him? Fenris was not easy to miss or forget, and his absence would not go unnoticed. And clearly it hadn’t, word had already spread. Varric and Aveline had gone to Fenris’ mansion two days after he had been taken to find the place had already been robbed and looted of anything with any value. What had been left was collected and boxed in Hawke’s foray, untouched. It had nowhere else to go.

How would Hawke handle the first questions about Fenris? What would he even say? What rumors would grow behind his back when he reentered Kirkwall’s streets? Would they see Hawke’s broken heart and mourning posture and fill in the blanks themselves? How long before it painted a target on his back, revealing the cracks in the armor before he could even open his mouth.

“You can’t keep hiding like this Hawke,” Varric’s voice cut through Hawke’s weary thoughts. A bundle of letters unfurled on the stone beneath his arms and he had to blink to clear his vision enough to recognize them as the ones he had left on his writing desk for weeks. Piling up as Bodahn gently but increasingly reminded him that they needed looking at. Hawke thought they could wait, everything could wait. “Things were bad when Fenris was still here and they’ve only gotten worse Hawke. The whole city is a mess, and they want you to deal with this shit.”

Hawke pressed the glass bottle to the side of his face, disappointed that it wasn’t as cold as it had been when it was full of ale. “’They’?”

“Yes, ‘They’!” Varric scrambled the letters with his hand, disrupting the whole pile across the stone. “Did your injury take your reading ability away too? Have you seen who you’ve been avoiding?”

Hawke’s eyes scanned across the letters, the stationary and seals of various noble families, the Circle and the Templar order. At a glance Hawke could tell the urgency, could spot the letters that had been sent twice, three time or more urging a response from him. Just looking at them made him feel a collective breath down his neck, eyes on him even here in the kitchen of his house tucked away and out of sight. He could vaguely recall the opening and shutting of the door at all hours as he tried to force himself through his recovery, the unintelligible murmurs that traveled up and died at his bedroom door. The world hadn’t stopped moving outside, no matter how much Hawke pretended it could. 

Hawke wanted to lie his head down on the table, to just collapse on the spot and sleep this entire nightmare away. But the letters took up all the space, he couldn’t even put his bottle down on the surface. “I can’t help,” He said, standing up to take another bottle only to be stopped by Varric passing him his own almost untouched bottle. He sat back down and took another soothing swig. “I don’t even understand why they are all wanting me to weigh in. I don’t have anything to offer or any way to _fix_ this shit situation.”

Varric nodded, seeming distracted suddenly, “Its a shit situation.” He agreed, “And perhaps it all coming down to you shows how deep this entire mess is. But the Hawke I know, he would know how to handle this. He would know what to say and what might set this city in the right direction for a change.”

Hawke’s brow knitted, the wound in his chest stung. “The Hawke you _knew_.”

Varric made a grumbled sound of frustration, although Hawke wasn’t sure it was all directed at him. “The Hawke I know is still in there. And that’s the Hawke that going to pick himself up and get back to business, one way or another. That Hawke is going to do what he needs to for the people here, and is going to be the Hawke that will get that elf back even if it means storming into Minrathous and burning the entire city to the ground.”

Hawke looked back at Varric, unsure if he felt more beaten down by his pep talk or inspired by it. “I don’t know if I can be that again. I don’t know.”

Varric stared him down, expression unreadable before sighing across the letter-strewn table. He reached into his overcoat, pawing at the inside pockets lining his chest. “I was hoping to hold onto this until I had some good news for you, but I think you could use something to hold onto now.”

A red sash trailed out from Varric’s pocket and Hawke’s heart stopped. It was dirty and worn in places, a splattering of blood on it too vulnerable and telling in Hawke’s eyes. His hands went to it immediately, twisting its length around his palms as his chest shook. His thumb rubbed across where Fenris’ blood had dried deep in the weave of the fabric, staining it. His heart was shuddering, his chest racked with pain that rivaled how it felt when the wound was fresh. It was real, in Hawke’s hands, like a wax seal encompassing everything that had happened.

Hawke brought it up to his face, pressing his lips to it mindlessly as his eyes burned. The fabric smelt like Fenris, the unexplainable scent of familiarity that he knew would fade as the days passed. His throat tightened and he couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. He couldn’t hold it all in.

“Be the Hawke Fenris loved.” Varric gave Hawke’s shoulder a gentle prod across the table, unphased by his display of emotions. “We all need you back.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few new tags have been added, take care of yourself. I feel the need to stress that there -will- be a reunion in the future, it wont all be terrible. 
> 
> And again thanks for the comments, kudos and bookmarks! <3

“Are you with us my little wolf?”

Fenris’ eyes eased open in the dim room. His head thick, foggy, as if he was being coaxed from the deepest of slumbers. But his head throbbed in a painful, relentless beat. His vision doubled as his eyes fought to focus on the ceiling above him, the dancing firelight, as he tried to open his mouth to speak. Something behind his eyes stung suddenly as if a cold thick prod stabbed into his brain. He cried out against the pain, too groggy to hold it in as he should. 

His wrists tensed against leather and his heart seized in his chest, his breath quickening when he realized he was restrained flat upon a slab. He could not for the life of him remember how he got here.

“Hush my pet, hush.” A cold hand at his bare chest and Fenris froze before relaxing slowly as a trickle of soothing magic entered his markings. His eyelids drooped, begging rest against the relentless beating in his skull. But instead he craned his collared neck, eyes searching. 

Fenris’ breath slowed when his eyes found his Master leaning over him.

“My poor, strong creature. How you must have suffered.” His Master’s voice eased his fear and his trepidation but didn’t soothe completely. Something was wrong. He couldn’t quite place a finger on the source of the dread he felt swirling sickly in his stomach. Couldn’t recall when or how he ended up here. Or… anything. Anything at all.

Fenris’ heart raced, eyes darting around the dimly lit work room. He tensed again against the restraints, unable to hold back the panic blossoming inside of him as his skull seared again. It felt like a reprimand, a strike deep inside when he tried to search his thoughts when he tried to remember anything. 

He stilled at a hand in his hair, gently combing white strands away from his sweat-beaded face, nails running along his scalp. His breath released and he relaxed again, dizzy from the effort. 

His Master tutted above him, just out of sight. “You have been through quite the ordeal Fenris.” His voice was sympathetic, soft, and Fenris melted in his gentle hand. His head was a bobbing ship in a Seheron storm and his Master’s voice, his affection, was an anchor. “Tell me, what is the last thing you remember?”

The sting struck him again. So painful and intense he felt ill in his stomach. He imagined his ears would bleed from how loud it felt inside of him. That he would be struck blind by it. He struggled to form words, eyes welling from the pain, “Master, please, it hurts…”

Danarius cooed above him, “I know my pet, you will have to bear it a little longer. Now answer my question. There is no wrong answer, just be honest.”

Fenris blinked hard against the pain, in his mind’s eye he recalled a thousand images. They had fallen apart like shattered glass, reflecting and distorting and sharp when he tried to piece them together. He remembered blood, qunari and fire. His body remembered physical blows and blood between his palms and his sword. All in pieces. When he tried harder he could recall a nameless city, windswept ocean spray under his feet, blurred faces he could not name. The deeper he went the more his head thudded against him like a hammer beat inside of his skull. He pulled back, as if for a breath against the confusion, and tried to center himself. He breathed purposefully and attempted to let his mind relax against the onslaught so he could find at least one clear answer. 

The smell of salt and sand sinking under him. Passive magic wrinkling over his markings. Eyes up and he could see the tall tangled trees of Seheron. He could hear the dull, distant war cries. The heat laid thick and oppressive against the leather of his armor as he pulled forward. The memories shifted together, overlapped and rippled as it if he were trying to recall a dream after waking. Everything past the thought was crushed glass, insubstantial as the sand on those beaches.

“Seheron.” Fenris breathed. He was sweating from the effort, his body aching where he had tensed unconsciously against his binds. His back, flat against the cool slab, began to itch in pain as well. He nodded, sure that this was the only memory of any substance.

His Master made a sound of thoughtful approval, his hand running from Fenris’ scalp down to his ear, rubbing his thumb along it soothingly. “Yes, you were in Seheron. Do you recall anything in particular? Where you were, what you may have been doing?”

Fenris’ ear twitched anxiously at the line of questioning. _You_ were in Seheron. Not ‘we’. Why would Fenris have been without his master? He was never without him, would never shirk his duty as his bodyguard. Or perhaps he had done something terribly wrong? Had he displeased his Master in some way he could not recall? The very thought made him tremble as he had no memory to hold up against the thoughts.

“No Master.” He whispered, struggled but found no energy to dive further again. “I recall fighting, on the beaches… master, it hurts, please…”

His Master sighed, as if he had removed a great weight from his shoulders. “Good Fenris, very good. Varania? Remove the bonds so my little warrior can sit up, I have much to tell him.”

An elf stepped up to the slab and undid the bonds at Fenris’ ankles. Fenris pressed his eyes closed with shame as she moved up to the straps against his thighs and waist, acutely aware of his nudity in the cool air. He tried to focus on the sensation of his Master’s thumb and forefinger rubbing his lower ear, tried to savor and relax to the lull it brought him. The elf undid the last of the restraints, unlatching the twin chains that had locked his collar to the slab. 

He pulled himself up with much difficulty, guided gently by his Master. His mouth twisted at the gesture, he felt unworthy of such care, wished only to return the kindness and concern his Master was showing him in whatever way would please him. His knees pulled together, his head swayed under its own weight as the room spun. His back was in agony, stinging and itching. He vaguely recalled the feeling.

Danarius’ hand cradled his chin, steadied him, “Tell me Fenris, do you recognize this woman?” 

Fenris blinked his vision clear, looked at the elf standing before him. Her hair was vibrant red and her clothes indicated that she was not a slave as he had first assumed, but a higher ranking than him. She seemed concerned. Or perhaps she was frightened of him? Most elves were, he was marked and had a reputation that did not endear him to them. Perhaps not even to elves of standing. “No Master.”

“Very good.” Danarius released him, stroking Fenris’ hair affectionately again. “My poor damaged pet. It was a miracle I found you, I feared I would never see you again.”

Fear stabbed at Fenris’ heart, his eyes flicked up but did not seek his Master’s gaze. What was he talking about?

“You were captured on Seheron,” His Master continued, “By the qunari. I had no choice but to retreat with the rest of our company and I feared what they would make of you. They have taken many of our own prisoner, mages and slaves like you alike, and they do unspeakable things. I have warned you of their tortures, my brave little warrior, but I hoped you would never be subjected to them.”

The qunari flashed in his mind, the smoke from the fires choking him, his blood running. 

“I sent so many search parties for you pet, more than had ever been sent for a slave. But I couldn’t bear to think of you in their hands, working you against me. They convert their prisoners pet, they change them by force, break their minds. Turn strong warrior slaves against their masters, serving the Qun, send them hunting like base animals for their master’s throats.”

Fenris’ throat tightened, he felt ill. He could remember a decorated Qunari, sitting as if on a throne, looking down appraisingly at his worth. The memory became sharp and threatened to cut. Fenris longed to curl into his Master for reassurance, for comfort, but if this was the truth…

“I feared Fenris, I feared losing you, and I feared what pain you would suffer for me. I knew, even then, how loyal and devoted you are. How you would never turn against me, not under threat or torture or any of the foul potions they poured down your throat. I knew you would even fight the wicked magics they would thread through your mind. You are so good for me aren’t you Fenris? So devoted and loyal.”

Fenris nodded frantically, a small pitched noise escaping his throat as his Master’s hand was knocked from his ear. Mercifully his Master’s hand returned, toying with the sensitive tip of his long ears. He was loyal, he was devoted, he wanted nothing else, knew nothing else but his Master’s gentle and generous ownership.

“I never gave up on you.” Danarius held Fenris’ face and he wanted nothing more than to sob, to beg forgiveness, to kneel and worship this man he was not worthy of. “It took so long my pet, so very long. And when we found you you were close to death, starved and tortured. Your mind was damaged, they had worked so hard to break you, to turn you against Tevinter, against me. But you never gave in to them, you were stronger. I have been working to recover you for weeks. I pieced your mind back together, brought you back to me.”

Tears were breaking from Fenris’ eyes, unable to hold them back. The pain in his Master’s voice echoed his own. He remembered pain, confusion, long nights suffering in some distant place as he fought his mind. The pain he felt at the indistinct faces in his mind, the painful stinging when he tried to piece it all together, it all made sense. He didn’t deserve the honour of having his Master worry and suffer, of having him toil away to bring him back to his own sanity. The cracked abyss inside of him a scar of all the time he had lost away from his kind Master. Of everything the qunari had tried to take from him but could not.

“I am so proud,” His Master whispered. His hands, more aged than Fenris remembered them being, stroked his face almost lovingly and Fenris could not have felt more honoured. “But you need sleep, my warrior. You deserve rest. Come lay in my bed, your wounds will sleep easier on finer linens.”

Fenris blinked away the last of his tears, shifting as he recognized the brand of pain that raked his back. Flogging. Torn to ribbons on their first phase of magical healing. He swallowed hard, unable to recall if the qunari had whipped him, or if in his damaged mind he had made a transgression. He put the thought aside. He was content to forget. He wanted nothing more than to curl beside his Master tonight.

But that night he was plagued by nightmares. He dreamt of shadows chasing him, unfaltering figures pursuing him between the darkened trees of an unfamiliar forest. They called him by name, taunted as his ragged breath caused him to stumble against the tangled roots and slippery undergrowth beneath him. The only thought ringing in his head, repeating like a mantra, _I will not go back_. And still the figures haunted him, blades and chains shining under the twisted beams of moonlight, until one ambushed him. Thrown to the ground, Fenris struggled against him, reaching for a missing sword. _I will not go back_.

Fenris was awakened by a fist in his hair and a paralyzing spell raking his nerves. Amongst the tears his eyes shed in sleep he saw his Master’s disappointed face. Tangled in sheets, covered in sweat and his back aching Fenris begged forgiveness for he had no doubt cried out in his sleep, woken his Master in his fits of fear. He did not deserve his Master’s bed, not while he was so damaged. Mercifully, Danarius waved him off, let him curl on the floor at the foot of the bed. Fenris fell asleep wishing he could undo all the torment and damage the qunari had branded deep into his mind so he would not trouble his Master more.

The days that followed moved slowly, each hour crawling and vast against the void of memory in Fenris’ mind. His Master was busy and spent most of the days away from the estate. Fenris was wounded and weak from the torture he had endured and was not permitted to leave with his Master. Fenris was to do nothing besides recover from his physical wounds and nurse his withered and weakened body back to health. 

Fenris found there was little he could do but rest. He had been given new quarters, in the wing that also contained his Master’s bedroom and private rooms, kept close in a place of honour. While the room was minuscule compared to any other in the wing, it was luxurious in comparison to anything in slave’s quarters. He had furniture, a place to keep his armor once it was replaced, and a large comfortable bed that he rarely got up from his first few days back. He even had a window, and while it only led to a small stone pathway between buildings he appreciated the fresh breeze, the sunlight that lit the small space.

But he shouldered guilt, carried it against him as he rested. He wasn’t sure he deserved such generous quarters. Didn’t deserve to be spending his days lying on his chest, watching the sunlight as it inched across the room. He couldn’t remain a favored slave like this, not with his previous absence and his damaged body and mind. What worth did he have? He wished he could understand what it was his Master still saw in him, what he had seen to fight so hard to save him. The guilt tangled with an anger deep down in his gut. Time had been taken from him, from his kind generous Master, time he could not get back. He could not promise that he could serve his Master as long as he had been taken, could not ensure the investment would be repaid. He wasn’t even sure he could regain his strength and be the formidable body guard he had once been.

A healer came to his room daily to tend to his back and see over his recovery. The same unfamiliar red-headed elf he had seen with his Master that first night. His Master had called her Varania. She did not speak to him and had the same meek mannerisms of a slave she had magic and status in the robes she wore. Fenris did not understand why his Master would employ an elvhen mage. He tensed the first time she rose healing hands to his flesh, expecting her elvhen magic to hurt. But she was skilled. Not as skilled as other mages who had worked on him, and certainly not as much as his /Master/. He stopped questioning her presence, had no place to question his Master’s decisions. But he did wonder why she looked at him that way.

The flogging wounds were healed in stages, slowly, Fenris knew from experience that it was the only way to magically heal them. Done all at once the magic would leave scars, long and ugly across his back. It was a week before he was able to lay on his back without pain. 

A slave came three times a day with food. Platters of servings that became more generous and plentiful as the days passed, as his stomach adjusted to eating again. Fenris found his hunger was never sated and that at the end of each meal his stomach ached for more. He wondered if a tonic had been added to his water, something to stimulate his appetite while he healed. He bit into rich fruits, licked stew bowls clean, gratitude fluttering in his chest at each bite after so long without such kindness. 

Danarius never came. Fenris pained to see him. 

Fenris avoided sleep as the days went on. Every time he closed his eyes for rest he woke in a sweat, fighting against the sheets and gasping for air. The dreams always came. They were abstract things that chewed away at him in the dark, even after he was awake. Images weaved together of battles, of fires, of ocean water and hands upon him. They all felt familiar, as if he might make them out and understand if he only looked hard enough. But they were still sharp as when he first awoke to his Master, their edges ringing in his ears and threatening to cut. He didn’t want them anyway. He didn’t want to remember the years lost to him, not after his Master had saved him.

After the dreams when the memories would claw at him, begging him for his attentions, he would shift his focus to the night his Master saved him. How Danarius had caressed him, stroked his ears, said words beyond any that Fenris deserved. All he wanted now was to prove he was worthy to his Master. That he could be the favored and strong bodyguard he had been. He would fall asleep comforted by the memory of his Master’s hands in his hair.

After two long weeks Fenris was allowed to train again. The padded training armor ached where the straps were pulled tight, his legs cramping under his weight, and his wooden sword clumsy in his hands. He was still weak. Weaker than he could recall being in some time. He remembered being put out by injuries before but he hadn’t felt this unsteady and insubstantial since he was young, fresh and new to the training yard only months after the lyrium ritual. He could remember the padded armor feeling large and encumbering on him as he fumbled his stances. He could remember his Master watching attentively as he began his training. But now Danarius was nowhere to be seen, and Fenris’ old trainer was just as vicious now as he had been all those years ago.

“You’re dead, boy.” His trainer spat as Fenris struggled to lift himself off the ground for what felt like the tenth time that session. The trainer had said that to him before, said it every time he got Fenris on the ground under him, had him pinned with a wooden sword bruising at his throat, every time Fenris would have been slaughtered if the swords were real. The wooden ones left bruises, large and ugly under Fenris’ lyrium brands, each one a record of his failures. He remembered crying when he was young. He did not cry now. He /would/ grow strong for his Master again.

The lyrium inside of him was still heavy as lead, dragging him to exhaustion like its own set of chains. It didn’t feel damaged but oddly absent. Fenris felt drained, wrung out and empty even before he reached the training grounds. The absence of time inside him echoed, bleak, and Fenris found he was becoming more and more frightened of what lay within that void. Danarius had told him he never broke under the qunari, that his loyalty was eternal and unwavering. But something deep inside of Fenris whispered, a feeling so muted and minute it was as if trying to catch smoke on the air. But Fenris /felt/ it. Doubt. Had he truly lasted those unnumbered years under torture and concoctions, purely devoted to his Master? How could he have? Even questioning it felt like a betrayal, clutching at his skin like gooseflesh. 

His mind wandered and he was on the ground again, gritting his teeth as his head hit the flagstones. The trainer threw his sword to the ground and muttered “ _Pathetic rat._ ” as he left. Fenris thumped his head against the ground himself. 

He had to stop doubting. He couldn’t pick at the healing wounds looking for answers. His Master had told him everything, and he would not lie to him. He would not recover if he looked back and if he questioned. All that mattered was that he was _alive_. He had survived. All that mattered was that he was back where he belonged. Everything would be right again with time and hard work and perseverance. 

Fenris picked himself off the ground. Again and again. For weeks. Absorbing each blow as his body remembered his old forms, blocking the attacks, his body acting on its own and using a dodge he could not remember learning. After weeks nursing bruised bones and forcing himself through forms and strength building alone in his room he finally was able to strike back. His wooden sword vibrating in his grip as it struck the other with a loud crack, over and over loud in his ears as he blocked and parried. Sweat was running down his back when he managed to shove his trainer back off his feet, got what would have been a killing blow. Finally. _Finally_. He was returning to himself.

The next day Fenris saw his Master again. 

Danarius was standing on the side of the training ground when Fenris entered. He fumbled his grip on his sword, his breath catching as a chill needled against him. His Master was _here_. Danarius must have heard how well Fenris was doing in training, coming to see for himself, coming to evaluate Fenris’ recovery for himself. It had been so long since Fenris had seen him, so long since Fenris had awoken broken and weak and damaged. His heart ached. He wanted to turn to him, wanted to kneel before him and express the weight of gratitude that had grown within him. But the trainer had his weapon up, called Fenris’ name and the fight began.

Fenris moved automatically, closing his Master from his thoughts as much as he could. Tried to ignore the burning eyes on his back. Had to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. He blocked easily, weaved dodges as the wooden swords met with the repeated cracking sound Fenris had started hearing in his sleep. He wished his lyrium had recovered to usefulness, so he could display it for his Master, but had only his base body to defend himself. His trainer was relentless, more aggressive than he had been previously. Fenris absorbed a blow unflinching, gritting his teeth against the pain before pushing back stronger than before. His strikes came fast, falling hard against the trainer’s sword, the wood clacking louder and louder until Fenris heard a crack. Splinters flying from their swords as his trainer fell back against the flagstones. Fenris was upon him as soon as he hit the ground, holding what was left of his wooden sword an inch from the man’s throat.

Above the sound of his own panting breath Fenris could hear his Master put his hands together. Fenris turned as he got off his trainer, eyes trailing the stones of the courtyard to the hem of Danarius’ robes. He was flushed, he could feel the warmth rushing into his face at the small but generous praise. Fenris was still out of practice, no where near the peak he had reached previously. But Danarius _approved_.

His Master approached as Fenris dropped to his knees, his forehead pressed to the ground as Danarius spoke. “Impressive.” Fenris shivered at the praise, his Master’s voice a balm against the doubt and turmoil he had been facing alone all these weeks. “You have done well pet. I expect you will return to your proper strength with more hard work, you /will/ work hard for me won’t you Fenris?”

“Yes Master.” Fenris’ breath was warm on the flagstones pressed against his forehead. 

“I think it’s time for you to be displayed again,” Danarius’ voice was soothing. Fenris’ eyes squeezed closed where he bent on the ground as relief and gratitude rolled down his spine. “Tonight. It is a small gathering, my colleagues will be so pleased to see you after such a long time.”

Danarius was gone by the time Fenris was on his feet. His Master’s absence a weighted thing inside of Fenris’ chest as he was sent to the baths to prepare. He was stripped of his training armor and soaked in thick sweet-smelling water. The slaves who came to bathe him considered him out of the corner of their eyes, small calculating glances that vanished after only a moment. No doubt they were envious of the generous manner in which Danarius treated him above all the other slaves. Even now, after everything that had happened, but this was a _reward_ wasn’t it? For recovering and working hard and proving his worth. 

The slaves scrubbed the sweat from his skin, washed his hair and powdered something upon his skin that made it glisten as if under moonlight. He was dressed in silks that draped loosely from his arms and chest, hiding where he was still thin and under-defined. Masking the shortcomings he still had to cross. His ears were adorned, delicate silver chains hung around his ankles, his house collar replaced by one made of ornate twisted sliver that complimented the lyrium brands. Fenris shivered, trepidation laced through him. He did not know why his stomach knotted or why he felt a strange underlying _dread_. He wanted his Master’s approval, he wanted it more than anything in existence. That was all a slave like him could desire. So why was he doubtful? 

Fenris forced the thoughts from his mind as he was led down familiar halls by Varania. She led him in silence down the darkened corridors towards the more intimate entertaining halls, the marble floors cool against his decorated feet. The mage paused at the door, hand raised to knock to announce their entrance, her fist was shaking. She was trembling. Fenris’ gaze darted to the floor as she turned to him, both her hands shaking. 

“Fenris,” Her voice was soft, secret under the lively murmur behind the door. “Do you remember _anything_? Have you truly forgotten?”

It was the first thing the mage had ever said to Fenris. It did not sound like a command but more like a plea, as if she was prying for something _important_ Fenris was supposed to remember. His lips pressed together, his ears pinning back slowly as he considered how to answer the question. Small flashes of a lost life rising and falling behind his eyes as incomplete as the sea foam on the waves. She turned back to the door abruptly and rapped upon it, as if she had never said anything.

The room was dimly lit and obscured by a thick sweet-smelling smoke that caused Fenris’ eyes to flutter. A handful of mages turned to him as he entered, their eyes roved over him and his skin _crawled_. Something bitter rose in his throat as he blinked hard away from them, pressing down the unfamiliar feelings that bucked inside of him. A hand gripped his arm in the midst of his confusion, the grasp grounding before Fenris even saw it was his Master who held him. Danarius’ other hand touched his shoulder, fingers trailing down Fenris’ exposed skin. The lyrium awoke within him, after weeks of the brands lying heavy and dead. Danarius’ casting hand trailed from Fenris’ stomach up his chest, the lyrium burning faintly as it lit, all the way up Fenris’ throat until his chin was held delicately in Danarius’ glowing hand.

Fenris’ eyes lidded as he leaned into his Master’s grip, the lyrium pulling from his still weakened reserves of strength. Danarius held Fenris up as his peers leaned forward, murmured in appreciation and raised glasses in his direction. Fenris’ body was heavy as the lyrium light faded from his skin, drained and weak. The mages’ words were lost to him as his Master led him with a strong grip to a luxuriously dressed lounge. Within a moment Fenris was arranged against his Master, draped against his chest where he reclined and drank as his guests spoke with him. Fenris let his eyes droop as Danarius ran an idle hand through his hair, ears perking at the sound of his voice, nuzzling close as the intoxicating scent of the room made his head heavy. 

This was where he belonged, Fenris thought to himself. At his Master’s side with all his transgressions forgiven. Gratitude rolled through him, radiating as he hummed against his Master’s chest. That he would be here, safe and precious, saved from the savage hordes that tried to force him from his loyalty. He would not fall again, he would not be taken. 

The night crawled on blissfully slow, Fenris dozed between the conversations the mages had with his Master and the small sips of wine he was gifted. The conversation was, of course, above him and his understanding. But he listened when he was not drifted to near-sleep by the fingers in his hair, eager to remember the names and rumors attached to them should they ever be important in the future. It was easy to forget, in the soft luxurious moments like this that he was his Master’s body guard, that his Master trusted Fenris to protect him from threats. So Fenris listened, picking the names and important details aside for later as the mages drank.

“You heard about the incident in Kirkwall, yes?” A mage asked as a slave filled his glass. Danarius’ hand stilled on Fenris’ head. “About their Chantry and the southern mage uprising, of course?”

Danarius stiffened under Fenris as the man continued. Fenris’ eyes flicked up to his Master to see him peering down at him. Fenris started and looked away, willing himself to remain soft under his Master’s piercing look.

“What of it?” Danarius’ voice was even despite the odd expression Fenris had seen. His hand slipped from Fenris’ hair, brushing cheek before catching Fenris’ chin and pulling his gaze up towards his own. Fenris swallowed hard, his heart racing as he looked up to meet his Master’s appraising, prying gaze.

“I had my doubts about ‘red lyrium’ rumor that attached itself to the story but-” The mage continued, obviously unperturbed by Danarius’ apparent change of interest. The man was rambling on, the words trailing far from Fenris as he held his Master’s gaze. He was not accustomed to maintaining eye contact like this for so /long/ and he had to still himself so he would not squirm uncomfortably where he lay against his Master.

The grip tightened and Fenris was dragged close to Danarius’ face. Fenris swallowed down a sound, fear flooding something base inside of him where he should have felt anticipation. He could smell the liquor on his Master’s breath as he spoke, “Do you know of what he speaks Fenris?”

Fenris blinked, the conversation in the room reduced to an amused murmur. “No Master.”

Danarius hummed an approving sound as his eyes searched Fenris’, the gaze felt as if it slipped under Fenris’ skin, as if he knew secrets within Fenris he did not know himself. “Of course you don’t.” Danarius smiled, his thumb running across Fenris’ lower lip as the men in the room chuckled and resumed their talk.

Fenris had no mind for any of them, his eyes still fixed on his Master as his gaze became soft. As his voice became quiet and private, “I shall enjoy you tonight Fenris, it has been too long.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait - again - life has been a whirlwind lately and writing has unfortunately not gotten the time I want to give it. Thank you guys for sticking with me and for all the comments, kudos and support it means a lot.

Hawke had been trailing the slaver convoy for three days. 

He had caught the trail after finding an abandoned camp, belongings torn from traveler’s packs and strewn through the dirt. Blood dried in the clearing, a small splattering that suggested injury not death. Hawke had been following a path that was becoming known for refugees trekking towards the Anderfels. Too commonly known now it seemed.

The tracks left by wagons and horses were left with care by the slavers, easy to track when they didn’t consider anyone would /steal/ their ‘product’. Two wagons and four horsemen, by Hawke’s count, the slavers must have thought themselves too many and too strong to be threatened while they were safe with Tevinter’s borders.

It took only a day for Hawke to catch up with them, keeping himself hidden as he followed their impression on the horizon. He stalked, watching for their schedule, studying each armored slaver. They were unaware of his presence, laughing and chattering in Tevene as Hawke worked to piece together the few phrases and words he had learned. They were comfortable. Their weapons were more for intimidation than fighting from what Hawke could discern. 

Hawke tried not to watch the men and elves that had been captured as he tracked the slavers. When one of the children’s tears had become inconsolable wails after one of the men on horseback had cuffed her on the back of the head he had to lean against a tree with his eyes closed until the convoy was far enough to drown the sound. Hawke could /not/ think about them. He could not let his mind drift to the displaced Marchers in shackles believing their free lives were over. He had to focus on rescuing them.

Now, on the third day, Hawke had seen his chance. A wheel on one of the wagons had splintered and cracked. The slavers had gathered around to consider their options, still a day away from the nearest town, and in the end the presumed leader rode off ahead. He had been the one Hawke was concerned of fighting, the largest and most battle ready of the small company. There was no better chance than now.

Hawke climbed a nearby tree, leather soled feet and calloused hands pulling him to her highest point. Through the leaves he could see where the captured were moved from the broken wagon to sit in a tight formation in the dirt, their hands and ankles shackled. The remaining slavers made a cooking fire and settled with a meal. Soon everyone was still, and Hawke made his move. The warm northern sun laid heavy against his earth-dyed cloak as he balanced and stood above the boughs. He threaded his bow, the red token wrapped around his wrist clear against the blue sky. He aimed carefully, his arrow point poised at the most formidable of the remaining five slavers.

The slaver’s meal was interrupted by an arrow in the throat, blood pouring as the others dropped their bowls and reached for their weapons.

A second slaver caught an arrow in the chest as she turned. The remaining shouting threats half understood as Hawke dropped from the tree silently. The men hadn’t spotted him when he fell, but a few of the stolen refugees did. Wide eyes watching the thin underbrush Hawke had taken for cover before darting their away so to not direct attention to him. 

The third slaver had moved at the last second, catching Hawke’s arrow in his arm. The man cried out and went to rip the arrow from where it embedded past the leather armor. _Amateur_ , Hawke thought, these men didn’t know combat in the way he did. He shot off another arrow and killed the man. The two remaining slavers had caught his position, turning their sights to him and charging.

Hawke scrambled from the brush, a dry branch catching his cloak as he circled to repair the distance. Two against him in close quarters was not ideal. The men snarled in Tevene as they chased, swords ready. Hawke twisted, dancing backwards as he aimed for one of them. They were too close to the prisoners for him to try anything other than a simple shot, once again, not ideal in this situation. 

The arrow missed, whizzing past the men who were _too close_ now. A stone slid under Hawke’s heel and he stumbled, his stomach twisting as he imagined the two blades cleaving him to the ground if he fell. But he recovered, jumped back as a blade swung too close, pulled a dagger from his armor.

He dodged a swing of a sword, sliced the warrior’s side as he danced away from the blade. The man cried out as his armor split and filled with red. Not deep enough. Hawke pulled his daggers up to block the counter he expected, caught a look in the man’s eye instead. Something was off. The man hesitated, teeth bared but still as Hawke skipped a step back. The man smiled, teeth crooked and clenched before he shouted something over his shoulder, eyes locked venomously on Hawke.

Hawke didn’t recognize a single word in the sentence, but knew that the words were not for him. There was a cry and Hawke tore his eyes from the warrior to see the second slaver yards away, holding one of the captured refugees against him, blade to the prisoner’s neck. Hawke’s stomach dropped. The elf couldn’t have been older than sixteen, gangly limbs shaking as he bit down on his lip to stop himself from making a sound. The slaver grinned, sword gleaming in the sun at the boy’s throat as he pulled his head back by his tussled hair. Hawke’s eyes darted back to the man in front of him, smile twisted and waiting for Hawke to make a move.

They would kill this boy. They would cut him down as if he was nothing. And they would do the same to the rest of the potential slaves. They would do it out of spite, out of vengeance for their fallen comrades. This teenage boy would have his life cut short because the slavers did not see him as a person and because Hawke had been reckless.

The slaver in front of Hawke shouted suddenly, jarring him from his thoughts. He didn’t understand what the man shouted, but knew what he most likely meant. He dropped his daggers, heard them hit the ground and bounce away from him. His empty hands shook as he raised them. His brain was scattered, skipping to try and concoct a plan. He couldn’t stop himself from looking to the young elf, his craned neck barred to the shining blade. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about _Fenris_. He couldn’t, not now, if nothing else he needed to save himself.

The man in front of him lowered his blade, sneering as his shoulders relaxed. Hawke remained still. The second man had relaxed somewhat too, but still held the elf’s hair tightly. Hawke swallowed hard, his mind still racing, if he didn’t come up with a plan soon he’d end up dead or else shackled up and dragged to a slave auction.   
He had failed these people, too reckless, he was always too reckless. This was how he lost _everyone_.

The young elf made a small noise in his throat and Hawke looked at him. The slavers hadn’t turned to look so they missed the private wink he gave Hawke.

The hair on the back of Hawke’s neck stood on end as the slaver holding the elf was raked with electricity. He shook violently, tendrils of shock magic flashing along his armor and blade. Hawke started, stumbled backwards in fright as the slaver in front of him whipped his head around and spit a familiar curse. Hawke feigned a slip, dropped himself low within reach of his surrendered daggers.

The shocked man’s hand released the elf, who shook his hair casually as the electricity bounded around him. The boy was a _mage_? Hawke had only a split second for surprise as the elf eyed him meaningfully, the slaver before him hesitating. With one quick stretch the dagger was back in Hawke’s hand and then embedded in the slaver’s calf before he could step forward. The man screeched, teetering unsteadily as Hawke pushed himself off the ground, second dagger in hand, and slit the man’s throat.

Blood coated Hawke’s gloved fingers. The slaver gurgled as he slid and died on the ground. Hawke looked up to see the other slaver was twitching on the ground, armor singed, empty eyes staring at the sky.

The young elf stepped back from the corpse, looked up at Hawke with a forced quirk of a smile, “Uhm.” He lifted his chained wrists, “Do you mind?”

It was the first common Hawke had heard spoken in weeks. He blinked, shock still rocking his body as if he had still failed the fight. 

“You’re-” He made a face, “You’re a mage and you managed to keep it secret from them?”  
The elf shrugged a shoulder.

Hawke blinked at him then over to the other chained refugees, they were all watching with a restless caution. Hawke hadn’t revealed his intentions yet, he realized, they might all think he was simply stealing them. 

He shook his head, his mind racing to catch up with what had transpired. That was too close a call. He knelt down to the slaver he had killed, padding down armor and rifling pockets until he found a ring of keys. He stepped towards the elf, eyeing him distrustfully despite the fact the boy had just saved him. Hawke had been jumpy for a while now and, to his own shame, uncharacteristically distrustful of mages.

“You handled that situation well.” Hawke offered as the boy lifted the locked shackles to his hands, fitting a key in quickly. 

“Kirkwall.” The elf answered as if that was the only explanation needed. And it was. Kirkwall was not kind to anyone. Especially a young elvhen mage like him. He had probably been evading the Templars most of his life, masking his abilities and hiding them from anyone who would exploit them. Smart kid.

“You didn’t think to try something like that before I showed up?” Hawke asked as he finished with the lock, knelt to undo the ones at the kid’s ankles as the elf rubbed his sore wrists. 

“There were too many before you showed up.” The elf answered, turning to wave at the others to show his freed hands. Hawke could hear a collective sigh of relief from them. 

Hawke undid the shackles and threw them aside in the grass. A lump forming in his throat. He buried his thoughts, instead standing and handing the boy the ring of keys. “You can get these damn things off your group there, I can pick the locks on the others while you do that to save time. We don’t have much time to waste, all of you need to get past Tevinter borders quick.”

The elf nodded as he looked away thoughtfully, as if forming a plan in his head. Then tilted his head and looked up at Hawke with a shy smile, “Hey, you’re… you’re _Hawke_ right?”

Hawke froze. He had left his title behind when he left Kirkwall’s smoking and disrupted corpse. He had shed his identity in favor of anonymity as often as he possibly could. He had traveled alone for this long year, traveling in undefined paths to avoid the shadow of the Chantry, her templars and seekers who wanted to strip answers from him that he just _did not have_. He stopped wearing his warpaint for this exact reason, had thrown away the priceless champion armor he had commissioned from high dragon hide somewhere it could never be recovered. All in a fruitless endeavor to become invisible, to remake himself as someone _better_.

The young elf looked alarmed at Hawke’s expression, his lips flattening as he raised his hands, “I’m sorry?”

“No I-” Hawke placed a hand to his face, only remembering the blood coating his gloves once he felt its sticky tack against his skin. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while and I’m-”

He reached for the hem of his cloak, the red fabric on his wrist catching his eye before he rubbed the coarse cloak against his face. “I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself. Things are... They are complicated.”

The elf relaxed and nodded with eyes wide, “Are they ever.”

Hawke and the boy split up to undo the shackles from the captured refugees. Hawke said few words, only to reassure those that were untrusting or frightened, and took his time picking the locks. Some of their gazes on him lingered with what seemed like recognition when they thanked him. Although none said his name, Hawke was sure they knew.

The elf mage had made quick work with the keys and caught up with Hawke to finish unlocking the last of them. Those who had been captured were unarmed, all their belongings lost, and it only took a second before the bolder men and women looted the slaver corpses. Swords and armor were pilfered as the newly freed refugees spat on the bodies or kicked angrily at them. The wagon had sparse supplies they took and after short discussion amongst the group, they decided that the horses were better use packed with supplies or ridden.

There was a familiarity among them Hawke was relieved to see, after all they had been traveling together before they were kidnapped. Their resourcefulness and readiness to make distance revealed their Marcher origins, these were _free_ men and women, not newly freed slaves.

It was different. This rescue was /easy/. He looked out past them, inland further into Tevinter as the group murmured in conversation, looked out towards where he knew Minrathous was. Only a couple of days travel away. It had been fourteen months since he had last seen Fenris. Was that long enough to break him? Would Fenris be the man he was when he was taken? Or was a hollowed out shadow of him all Hawke could hope to find?

“Hey,” The elf from before interrupted his thoughts, leading one of the saddled horses behind him. “We decided you should take one of the horses, since you saved us. We are going to head towards the Anderfels, find refuge somewhere there, the slavers shredded our map.”

The young elf shrugged, as if it were only a mild inconvenience in a long string of worse obstacles. 

Hawke looked at the horse and rose a hand to refuse the offering, “You should head to Weisshaupt. And you’re better off with all the horses, I prefer being on foot. Attracts less attention.”

The elf frowned at him skeptically, “Where were _you_ heading?”

Hawke shuffled uncomfortably, “I _was_ heading, somewhere, in Tevinter.”

“Why? You don’t seem the type. And you can’t speak Tevene.”

“I was...” Hawke scratched at his beard, wondered what the point of lying would be. “I was going to try and see someone. But after you saved my skin today, I’m not sure I should go alone.”

The elf’s eyebrows rose, “Well I’m not going with you.”

Hawke laughed, charmed by the young elf’s demeanor. He fidgeted with the token tied at his wrist, “No of course not. You need to go to Weisshaupt.”

“Which is?”

“It’s the headquarters of Grey Wardens, they will be able to help all of you.” Hawke looked up from the token to swing the minimal sack off his back and rifle through it. He pulled his rolled map out and handed it to the boy. “Only a few days’ travel from here, but I would suggest keeping rests down to a minimum and keeping camps short and well-guarded. These roads are dangerous, as you, uh, already know.”

The elf looked at the rolled up map but didn’t take it, using both hands to settle the impatient horse beside him. “And you are coming with us right?”

“What?” Hawke said automatically before considering how this looked. He saved this entire convoy of people and now was trying to abandon them to pursue what he just admitted was a dangerous and stupid mission. 

“Could use someone with your skills.” The elf smiled, knowing full well he was manipulating Hawke. He must have grown up hearing about all the heroic tales of Kirkwall’s Champion, knew how to pull Hawke’s threads.

Hawke looked away from him and back out into the rolling fields and forests that would lead him to the massive gates of Minrathous. He thought of the letters he had from Varric in his bag, the few pieces of correspondence they had managed despite the chaos of the year following Kirkwall. The only thing Varric could, or would, tell him is that Fenris was _still alive_. It should have settled Hawke, it should have assured him into biding his time as Varric repeatedly begged him to do. Tevinter was dangerous. Minrathous was a den of serpents. Danarius would be too much to take on his own. He should know that by now.

He turned back to the elf and nodded, “Alright.”

The elf smiled, pushed the reins into Hawke’s hand. “Lead the way then, mysterious stranger.”

“Hawke’s fine.” Hawke responded quietly, the rest of them would know as soon as they reached Weisshaupt. “What was your name?”

“Elias,” The elf responded, already heading towards the rest of the group. “Good luck remembering all their names.”

\----------------------

Hawke stayed at Weisshaupt for two weeks, the longest he had stayed in one spot in months. The wardens had welcomed the refugees, offering them food and lodging in exchange for work until they were able to make their way further in the Anderfels. The wardens had also, to Hawke’s dismay, recognized him right away. As it turned out, the wardens were fans of his. Hawke wasn’t sure exactly why or how but the wardens had heard the exaggerated versions of his exploits in Kirkwall, even beyond the chantry destruction.

They had Hawke settled in one of the rooms reserved for high ranking wardens right away, ensuring him he was welcome to stay for as long as possible. There was never a mention of the chantry’s hunt for him, which had Hawke suspicious and on edge at first. But it only took a few days to learn that the wardens had a strange distaste for the chantry. When he asked one of them about it he was told that their old Warden-Commander had specific views that had trickled down and that Hawke did not have to worry about the chantry while within their walls.

Hawke stayed, initially, to make sure the Kirkwall refugees settled in and were treated well. Within only a few days their resilience and the hospitality of the wardens proved stable enough that Hawke’s presence wasn’t needed. But it had been so long since he had a proper bed to sleep on and working baths that he decided to stay on for a time.

Rest and relaxation after months of constant travelling did wonders for Hawke. His back had stopped aching, the occasion soreness of his chest scar had quieted, and his beard was properly trimmed again. The wardens did much to try and pull him from his shell, talking him into helping the recruits with archery training and inviting him for drinks and cards in their dining hall.

The drills in the yards and the late nights drinking and laughing over cards were much needed, but Hawke found that they echoed to something empty inside of him. A great vast sadness he carried and tried to hide from himself. He would return to his room at the end of the night tired with an exhaustion clinging to his bones that had no right to be there. He pulled the blankets up over his head, curling deep into it and willing himself to not think about his lost home, his friends far flung and unreachable. His heart ached like a physical injury, the actual wound in his chest that would never close. Not without /him/.

Now at the two week mark Hawke could feel a guilt settle in his stomach. He found himself looking out over the horizon, looking at his emptied pack in the corner of his room, unfurling his map and calculating how many days he would need to walk to reach Minrathous. Every day he spend in this safe comfortable fort was another day Fenris was enslaved. 

He remembered the letters from Varric he had tucked away, each one listing even more reasons Hawke should wait and not storm Danarius’ estate looking for Fenris. Varric was right, every point detailing how it would be _suicidal_. And didn’t his run in with the slavers teach him anything? If Hawke couldn’t handle that situation without someone coming to his aid what chances did he have in Minrathous?

But… He couldn’t just leave him. Could not sit here while his love suffered.

Hawke laid his gear and belongings out on the bed first thing in the morning, taking stock of what he would need to buy from the wardens to fill out his bag for the trip and noting the repairs he still needed to do to his tools and supplies. He could leave in two days if he focused. Hawke nodded to himself, making a list in his head of everything that would need to be done, before leaving to get himself breakfast.

Hawke sat himself in the dining hall with a plate of eggs and toast the cooks had prepared. Afterward he would look into what supplies the wardens were able to sell to him, somehow without alerting them to his leaving, he felt they would object and try to make him stay. How would he respond to that? After all the kindness they had given him? He would just need to cross that bridge when he came to it. 

“Hawke?” A voice called from across the hall. Hawke looked up to see one of the younger wardens he had had training sessions with in the yard scanning the room for him.

Hawke raised his hand and she came to him with a parcel wrapped in brown paper with a letter carefully tied to it in her hands.

“Ser one of our wardens picked this up in a nearby town.” She said as Hawke took it from her, the weight and rigid shape telling. “He said you told him to see if anything had been sent for you?”

Hawke took the package from her hands, the weight and rigid shape telling of the contents. The letter upon it was in Varric’s familiar handwriting and addressed to one of the many pseudonyms they had come up with before Hawke left the Free Marches. They had a system for their correspondence that had been effective, and had yet to give the chantry anything to track.

Varric had teased in a letter that he had Hawke to thank for inspiring him for his next work. Hawke hadn’t thought of it, but, he knew Varric had always talked about writing something about Kirkwall’s Champion. But he couldn’t have. It was too risky, he was putting himself in harm’s way, and what if he had written about…

“Morning.” 

Hawke jumped and looked up from the parcel in his hands to see Elias sleepily slumping down on the bench across from him, bowl of oatmeal in his hands. 

“What’s that?” The elf almost slurred, eyes lidded with what looked like exhaustion. He hadn’t ever seemed rested in the weeks Hawke had known him.

Hawke turned the parcel in his hands, “A book, it feels like. I’m a bit worried to see what it is.”

“Why’s that?” Elias asked between spoons of the watery oatmeal.

“My friend is a writer.” Hawke sighed, looking around the hall at the few wardens and refugees that were there. He had managed to sneak by the others without talking about anything personal, hiding the sadness that crept inside of him. But he found himself able to open up to Elias for some reason. At least the teenager didn’t seem put off by the melancholy the topic brought him. “And considering everything-”

Elias frowned, “You mean he might have written about the whole chantry thing? Geez.”

“He always joked that he would write about me one day, but now, uhm. I think he might have been serious.” Hawke frowned at the brown wrapped package. “This could be really bad.”

“Cause the chantry is looking for you?” Elias smirked and Hawke thought perhaps that what made the mage attach himself so easily to Hawke. Both of them running from the same large overseeing force. 

“Actually,” Hawke squinted at Elias, suddenly curious to follow this distraction instead of looking at his own problems. And he hadn’t gotten to talk to Elias’ privately since they arrived at Weisshaupt, “What’s happening to you now? What’s your plan? The wardens don’t know you’re a mage do they?”

Elias put down his spoon, a low displeased sound humming from his throat, “They found out, one of the others probably tipped them off. But apparently their warden-commander or whoever was in charge established a ‘no turning mages in’ policy they still hold up. But, uh, the compromise there is that I’ve been conscripted, so, I guess I’m gonna be a warden.”

Hawke felt a sting in his chest and winced, “I’m sorry.”

Elias shrugged and looked around absently, “Could be worse. Its one of the better options I think. Also this isn't a bad place to live hm? They make decent food at least. And I won’t get in as much shit from people if I got warden colours on.”

Hawke nodded, looking back at the package in his hands again. “There’s always that.”

“Open it already.” Elias urged, eyebrows up as he nodded to the wrapped book. “Or else I will start asking you personal questions.”

Hawke sighed, averting his eyes from the package as he tore the paper from it. The rough paper gave way to smooth leather under his fingers, his thumb grazing over the clean-cut edges of the book’s paper. The book itself was thinner than Hawke expected now that it was out of the wrapping, most of its weight in the quality binding. 

“ _‘Tale of the Champion’_ ” Hawke read the title out loud, rubbing at his face as the reality of it settled into him. “I knew he would do it eventually but-”

A cold thought slid down Hawke’s spine freezing him mid sentence. It was one thing for Varric to write about him but anything he might have written about Fenris could be dangerous. With a start Hawke opened the book, paging rapidly past illustrations and chapter titles that made his pulse race. 

“What’s wrong?” Elias asked, leaning forward trying to peek over the top of the book.

Hawke couldn’t tear his eyes away as he scanned pages and skipped ahead to a chapter that began with an illustration that made Hawke’s heart stopped. It was Fenris, a simple likeness but uncanny. He was standing strong, sword raised as chains snapped away from him, Hawke’s red-tailed arrows flourishing from around him as a cover. The lyrium markings were marked in pale blue ink and a trailing sash tied at his wrist marked in red. The chapter was labelled ‘ _The Lyrium Ghost_ ’. His fingers trailed over the drawing, breath catching in his throat as he remembered his fear. 

“No, no, no, Varric you couldn’t have-” Hawke breathed, calloused fingers clumsy as he turned the page and scanned the text.

The chapter was regarding Fenris’ “disappearance”. Paragraphs referred to him with a familiarity that told Hawke he would have to comb the previous chapters for mentions of Fenris. He scanned quickly, too anxious to take in the words properly yet. Pieces of the paragraphs stuck to him as he read. 

“- _Fenris, the closest of all of the Champion’s companions_ -”

Hawke felt as if he was swimming through memories, seeing them through warped glass. 

“- _As a fugitive from Tevinter Fenris had many enemies. He could often be seen checking over his shoulder, expecting hunters to fall upon him at any moment. They often did, but Fenris was too strong to be taken._ -”

His stomach was rolling, unsteady suddenly as if he were on a storm-wracked ship.

“- _Those who knew him found a loyal and steadfast friend, one that you could depend on when the odds were stacked against you. But everyone close to him knew his loyalty and adoration was strongest toward Hawke himself._ -”

Hawke’s breath sped, his eyes watered, how much had Varric written?

“ _Although it would seem suitable for a hero such as Fenris to vanish as mysteriously as he appeared - this is not a story without hope - and this is not it’s end. In the elf’s absence the Champion was able to find strength to carry on, never forgetting Fenris for even a single moment. As long as there is love in Hawke’s heart this love story will not end in tragedy._ ”

“ _Life goes on and battles must still be fought. The Champion and his lyrium ghost will meet again._ ”

The chapter ended. 

Hawke pressed his face into the crook of his elbow, shaking as tears fell. Every letter that Varric had written since he had fled Kirkwall had told him to wait, had told him how it would be suicide to wander into Tevinter, but never once had Varric written anything that suggested he actually thought Hawke would find Fenris again.

“Hawke?” Elias’ hand was hovering near Hawke, concern clear on his face as Hawke wiped his eyes and swallowed the tears down. “Is.... is this about Fenris?”

“What?” Hawke blinked, snapping the book shut to keep the precious pages away, private. “How- What are you talking about?”

Elias’ eyebrows hitched in quiet apology, “I’m sorry.” He said, “I wanted to ask, since we met, it’s none of my business though. You don’t need to answer, I can leave you alone.”

“Wait,” Hawke crutched a bit of brown paper in his hand, something in his chest loosening at hearing Fenris’ name spoken out loud. “What do you- How did you know?”

Elias rose a brow in disbelief, “Hawke, I’m from the Kirkwall alienage. You think I don’t know who Fenris is? You gotta get used to people knowing things about you Hawke, especially if that book is a real thing that is going to be sold and read.”

Hawke looked away, blinking a stray tear away as he checked to see if anyone in the hall had taken notice of their conversation. Mercifully the only others were sat far enough away that they could not have overheard. 

“I couldn’t figure out why you’d want to go to Tevinter,” Elias continued, eyes trailing away as if to give Hawke some form of space. “Until I thought about how Fenris had just _disappeared_. Lots of people talked about it you know. There were a ton of rumors, one being that he had gotten captured and sent back. I put two and two together and…”

Elias looked back to Hawke shyly, seeming awkward and exposed suddenly. Had he spent weeks silently thinking about this? Hawke sighed and rubbed at his neck, balling the last of the packing paper in his fist before letting it roll across the table. 

“I know I can’t just go and save him.” Hawke almost whispered. As the words came out he recognized that it was less a confession and more an affirmation to himself. “The only chance I have is to wait until he’s not in Minrathous. I have connections, there are people watching for that chance. But this waiting…”

Hawke squeezed his eyes shut, the reality of the situation entrapping him. His fist banged the table, the sound loud enough to turn heads in alarm. 

“...Is suffering.” Hawke finished, opening his eyes again.

Elias seemed unrattled as he nodded slowly, “You should stay here, for a while longer at least.” The young elf propped himself on his elbows and leaned over the table slightly as he stared pointedly into Hawke’s eyes, “You’re the _Champion_ Hawke, you’re going to get him back. I know it.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a long one, and its a HEAVY one so please take note of new tags and take care of yourself while reading.

The year passed Fenris slowly in the presence of his lost time. Each day feeling long and dense and hard to put down when Fenris finally laid to sleep. But over the months his life slowly returned to normal, as his body recovered and regained the strength and stamina he once had he found the looming darkness of the void inside him falling away. Although he knew there was damage that would never be undone and years of service to his Master he would never regain he was able to take comfort in his duties, and the small glances of approval from his Master.

Eventually, Fenris began to feel that he was not being judged against his capture any longer. That, while it would never be _forgotten_ by his Master, he had proved his strength and worth. As imperfect as he was, he could never hope to repay the expense and kindness his Master had bestowed him by saving him from the Qunari. But Fenris was able to perform his duties to his Master’s satisfaction, so he knew he was no longer a loss.

Fenris took comfort in the return to normalcy. He trained daily with the other guards, accompanied his Master when he left the estate, assisted in disciplining unruly slaves, entertained his Master’s guests, anything ordered of him he would do. He did everything with precision and loyalty so that his Master would always know his devotion. His Master had stopped looking upon him with suspicion and disappointment. He appeared pleased when Fenris guarded him with full attention, and had even bestowed affection upon him when his Master had used him intimately. 

The days had begun to pass quicker and with less distress. During the day Fenris could focus on his tasks to chase away the shadows that still lurked in the gap within him. But nightmares still plagued him. Thankfully they did not find him nightly as they had done before, but they were never far. He had dreamt of fire, arrows flying past his face as he fought endless battles and of long dark stone caverns with glowing veins singing to him. He glimpsed faces, towering qunari figures, blood sprayed against grey stone. The dreams were not always distressing when Fenris was within them, there were times the dreams wrapped around him like a spell to lull him into false security. But waking from them always brought a chill down his spine. Fenris could not know if any of what he dreamt belonged to the gaping void inside of him and what were simple dreams. He swallowed them down, willing himself to forget them, newly ashamed and guilty of his weakness.

Master Danarius had not waited long to present Fenris to more of his colleagues and friends. After the first display since Fenris’ return Danarius had arranged for a large party to properly present him anew. By the time the event arrived Fenris had almost returned to his full physical strength, his lyrium shining as he stood bare before magisters and other important colleagues of his Master. The night had become a blur of hands trailing on his lyrium-burned limbs, of men and women whispering gossip to each other and then leaning close to Fenris to ask him questions he could not answer.

“Were you _truly_ taken by the Qunari?” They would ask, and Fenris would gently nod, head heavy from the wine they had kept pushing to his lips.

“Hmm,” They would turn to each other, “That’s not what I heard. But I suppose Danarius would prefer we all forgot about _that_ wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t do to have you questioning him would it ‘little wolf’?”

Fenris was accustomed to the petty gossiping and biting rumors those in Minrathous would scatter about. He knew to ignore it all, to trust his Master and no one else, knew that these men and women only sought to find cracks to break open. Weaknesses he knew they would never find, and if they did, would never be able to exploit. 

The parties remained regular as was normal, Fenris’ Master keen to keep good relations with those in the Magisterium and others that he might do business with. Slowly the creeping accusations and rumors fell away from Fenris, once it was realized he would not react, and he was able to pay closer attention to the people and the dealings as they happened. 

Even though Danarius always employed an effective guard so that Fenris could be safely distracted by entertaining and the guest’s needs, Fenris always did his best to watch the people that surrounded his Master.

A select group had begun to float around Master Danarius more and more at each event Fenris attended with him. Fenris saw them speaking in hushed tones to his Master, their voices changing when anyone else approached, secretive. Fenris kept his eye on them, whether he was made to curl against a magister at a party, or perform acts with another slave for entertainment, he always tried to notice when they approached and spoke with his Master.

They had slowly become fixtures in the estate, appearing for closed door meetings that Fenris was not required to guard (although he felt uncomfortable having his Master vanish with them alone) or else for private dinners. 

“Imagine what Tevinter could become,” They would say, any of them interchangeably, the topic rarely straying farther from this one. “-with a return to the old ways. If our forefathers could see how low we let our Empire fall they would be disgusted, ashamed. It’s only right for us to pursue it again, damn the Magisterium, there is so much wealth and power to be gained if we just pursued it…”

Politics were beyond Fenris, being a simple slave and an elf, so he could not judge the words they spoke. He could only judge the conspiratorial tones they spoke in. The way they would look over their shoulder at parties before speaking. And how when Fenris spotted them in public, whether at the Magisterium or otherwise, they would avert their eyes and stride away. As if Master Danarius were a stranger, someone that they did not visit weekly to speak with.

Fenris felt tense around them, felt their glances heavy against him as their eyes trailed along the lines of his markings. But it was unbecoming for a slave to carry suspicion, and it was worse to feel any ill will against someone his Master saw as fit company.

Master Danarius never spoke about them or their meetings, never mused over their conversations with Fenris present. In the past Fenris remembered him thinking out loud about the troubles he had in business and Magisterium to Fenris when they were alone. That was one of the only things that had yet to return to the normalcy of Fenris’ life. He wondered if it would ever return.

“Magister,” One of them said, while Fenris’ head was blurry with drink and lying comfortably in his Master’s lap at a small gathering. “It’s no secret that you have done things with lyrium that no other mage in Tevinter has surpassed. The expert in your field, I mean, one only has to look at this lovely elf of yours to see that.”

Master Danarius’ hands carded through Fenris’ hair, petting him as if he were a gentle lap dog. The touch made Fenris’ eyes heavy but he willed himself to stay awake, to hear the words.

“No doubt you heard the rumors about what happened in Kirkwall-” Fenris’ master’s hands did not pause this time. “They say that the Knight Commander had a sword with _red lyrium _. I’m sure that not all the rumors are true, some are outright ridiculous. Statues coming to life! But, we have recently confirmed that red lyrium is very real. We are securing a supply of it as we speak.”__

__Master Danarius’ hand stopped, he straightened and leaned slightly forward as Fenris blinked and remembered one of his dreams. Veins singing to him along a cavernous stone wall..._ _

__“The properties of it are still widely unknown,” The man was whispering now, his voice difficult to hear over the music and sounds of the gathering. “But what we know is that it is vastly superior to regular lyrium. Now, Magister Danarius, I know your interest in our cause has been… minimal. But I’m sure you may reconsider your position if the Venatori were to supply and fund your ground-breaking research into this new lyrium, hm?”_ _

__Fenris pressed his forehead against his Master’s thigh as he listened, he could feel fingers twist in his hair thoughtfully. Fenris didn’t know why this red lyrium sounded so _familiar_ or why there was growing anxiety deep inside of him at its mention._ _

__Master Danarius’ fingers became a fist in Fenris’ hair and slowly pulled him back off his lap. Fenris blinked rapidly as he gathered his hands under him for support, his neck arched and exposed as his Master cooed at him._ _

__“Little Wolf,” His Master said, “Wouldn’t you like to keep my good friend company tonight? Let him see how well I crafted you?”_ _

__With that Fenris knew the deal was done. He was being offered in good faith, a gesture to show that his Master was pleased with the agreement._ _

__Fenris shifted and curled his body against the magister, the one who spoke of the Venatori, and willed himself to remain soft as the man ran a finger along the lyrium brands in his neck. He followed him to his guest room as the gathering quieted down, thankful the wine his master had fed him that night dulled his mind and his senses ‘til the morning._ _

__It was only a couple weeks until the first shipment of red lyrium arrived at the estate._ _

__The chest was brought in the dead of night, carefully hidden and covered in the wagon that pulled silently into one of the small yards used for deliveries. Fenris watched, close to his Master’s side, as pale slaves threw back the layers of canvas in the back of the wagon. Each layer of the fabric that was pulled away revealed a stronger unsettling red glow. It prickled at Fenris’ markings as he neared it, pins and needles rolling against them in a melodic rhythm._ _

__The slaves hesitated at the last sheet, the glowing red pulse impossible to miss now, their hands twisting the fabric nervously as they looked up to the man Fenris’ Master was speaking with. Fenris couldn’t help but notice the elves hands were veined a unnatural red against their clammy skin. Fenris took a step away, uneasy, ear twitching at as he felt what he knew was the veil rippling around them._ _

__With an order from their master the slaves whipped the last sheet away and scrambled at the handles of the chest. The chest was _glowing_. Red crystals splayed across the outside of the crate like a blood spray, organic and chaotic with growths of it cracking wood and reaching towards the sky. The slaves carried it quickly, seeming eager to be away from it, and Fenris couldn’t blame them. His own lyrium was searing in his skin. _ _

__The chest was hidden away in the room deep in the heart of the mansion, where Master Danarius prefered to do his work. The man who had delivered it warned him to not handle it directly, and that anyone exposed to it would suffer from the exposure. He had gestured to the pathetic looking slaves that, upon a second glance, seemed to have a red haze about their eyes. Master Danarius did not seem surprised or concerned, he had worked with various forms of lyrium before and knew the risks. His confidence, strangely, did not ease the knot of fear in Fenris’ stomach._ _

__Fenris should have felt secure in his Master’s judgement, in the fact that the chest was behind locked doors safely away from where he slept, but the image of the corroding chest and the slaves carrying it would not leave him. He dreamt that night of wandering deep dark corridors, the shadows wavering and following, the omnipresent soft red glow singing as he sweated through the night._ _

__He overheard Danarius’ apprentices whisper about strange dreams the next morning, even the ones who weren’t yet aware of the chest under their feet. Spirits and demons appearing clearer and more aggressive, a strange red light that colored everything as they walked the fade in their sleep. Even the other slaves seemed uneasy, their eyes darting and hands shaking. It was as if the thing in the chest had seeped through the walls, affecting everyone in the estate._ _

__Master Danarius did not seem immune to the strange feeling in the estate either. He kept Fenris close after the first night, barred him from training or seeing to any matters besides his own protection. Fenris was left posted in the dark cold halls outside his Master’s work rooms, listening to the soft muffled sound of his Master’s voice through the closed doors. Forcing himself not to think of his strange dreams of stone caverns, to not listen or acknowledge the faint and almost familiar beat of the red lyrium against his own._ _

__He heard his Master discuss with his apprentices how his first goal was to create wards against the strange and dangerous effects the lyrium was rumored to have. He claimed it was the first priority of his “business partners”, never once saying the word ‘Venatori’ to the eager mages that worked under him. Fenris did not wonder why, it was not his place, and he was loyal and obedient enough to not reveal his Master’s secrets._ _

__Weeks passed with Fenris spending his days in the hall alone outside the work rooms, leaving only to follow his Master when he choose to leave for meals and to sleep. Master Danarius had ordered for guards outside his bedroom doors and for Fenris to stay close to his side as he slept. He had hired additional guards, mercenaries, not only to guard the estate but to surveil the slave guards Fenris had trained with. When Danarius would finally retire in the early hours of the morning he would tell Fenris, every night, that he had to be vigilant. That he had to remain close. Fenris did not question him._ _

__Fenris wasn’t sure if his Master’s fears were based in the effect of the lyrium or his distrust that those around him would not fall victim to its effects. The apprentices all appeared to subtly change in their demeanor as the work carried on, carrying themselves in ways that caught Fenris’ attention and had his eyes watching them as they came and went from the laboratories. If only to remind them that he was there, that they could not move against his Master without him there and ready._ _

__But then there was the elf apprentice, Varania, who Fenris had felt uncomfortable around since he returned to Danarius. Her eyes were always on him. She had grown pale as the weeks went on, tugging and scratching at the gloves she had begun to wear at all times. A tint of red was growing in her eyes, the veins in her neck growing more apparent. She would glare at Fenris as she passed him, accusatory, chin out as if she was prepared to defend herself from him. Fenris always stepped away, averted his eyes, made himself as cowed and docile as he could. His suspicions about the other apprentices did not reach her, instead he felt frightened by her hostility, fearing an undue punishment or retaliation. He wasn’t sure why she was _different_._ _

__The red lyrium made its effect known right as Master Danarius had developed a technique to ward from it. Fenris had felt its effects from his post in the hall, the twists and cuts and pulses to the veil his lyrium was sensitive to on top of the strange dreams that had crept into his head as he guarded the doors. Upstairs in the mansion proper, there had been a sizable uptick in the number of punishments doled out to the salves. The slaves themselves had become unduly anxious, had started to pocket things from the kitchens and rooms they serviced, and most surprisingly had become aggressive with each other._ _

__The staff, the wardens and drivers especially, had grown more distrustful of the slaves and had become more relentless and cruel in their punishments. Fenris had followed Danarius back from the basement one night to hear the reports given to his Master of one particular slave that had died on the whipping post. Master Danarius had no concern for it, and Fenris had felt pride in that he had remained the well-trained and proper slave even with the red lyrium whispering to him from outside the door._ _

__The estate had, mostly, gone back to something more familiar and docile once Master Danarius had placed wards upon the grounds. The apprentices and staff slowly relaxing back to normality within days, the slaves had their heads low in apparent shame for their previous behavior. Fenris had felt himself relax, although his dreams continued unhindered. His Master had grown fond of Fenris remaining close at all times and made no change to his orders._ _

__Before long another shipment of the red lyrium arrived. It came in the middle of the night again, as fugitively as it had the first time. The slaves in the back of the wagon were different, although the man delivering remained the same. They were pale and sickly looking as the first had been, but these were wild-caught slaves. Vallaslin marked their blank faces, broken up on one of them by an unsightly scar across his face. Expendable. Fenris briefly wondered what had happened to the ones from before._ _

__The three new chests were carried deep into the laboratories where they lit the walls with a dim red light. Fenris could not feel it crawl against him the way it had before, but the unease did not lift from his shoulders._ _

__Master Danarius had taken a short break from the work to entertain and rest. Fenris remained within an arm’s reach at all times, either ignored completely as he remained alert for possible threats or made to be soft as a lap dog for his Master’s comfort. Small gatherings were arranged, the only guests being those Fenris recognized as the ones who had convinced his Master to work for them with the promise of red lyrium. They were important, and the gatherings reflected it. The best wines were brought in, the finest of body slaves offered to them, and Danarius’ unwavering attention bestowed._ _

__“The wards have been beyond successful.” His Master explained to them. Fenris stood nearby in his leathers and armor for once, his Master still concerned of possible threats Fenris did not know. “My apprentices were highly affected, especially my elhven one who handled it personally. The entire estate became chaotic and volatile, a driver accidentally killed a slave who had become rough with another. But the wards have ended all of that. I am housing four chests of the substance not far beneath us, and I doubt any of you have even _sensed_ its presence.”_ _

__The men were impressed and Fenris felt at peace. Their approval of his Master’s work meant good things. Their recognition of his Master’s greatness and intellect soothed him, even as their eyes began to wander onto him. Their eyes piercing and greedy as Fenris lowered his._ _

__“Danarius,” The magister that Fenris had serviced all those weeks ago spoke, his eyes trailing along Fenris’ body knowingly. “Do tell, what is your next phase of this research?”_ _

__Moments later Master Danarius was impatiently eyeing Fenris as he stripped his gauntlets and chestplate. A chill catching him as he removed leathers and tunic so that his chest was bare as the Venatori men crowded him in the small space. He caught a frightened breath in his throat as he stilled himself, his Master trailing hands clinically across his lyrium brands, fingers prodding at the markings. His words lost to Fenris as he felt the breath of the others on his bare skin and felt something untamed and foreign in his mind flash its teeth. _This was wrong somehow_. But Fenris remained still, his mind feeding him visions of red glowing underground caverns and stone tombs where footsteps echoed and someone shouted his name._ _

__“The wards must be strong, otherwise I would waste him.”_ _

__Days later Fenris was standing near his Master as he inspected a dozen slaves his Venatori partners had sent. Fenris knew they were worth little with only a glance. A few wild-caught with scarred throats, one with excessive scars marring his face and body, mostly ones who appeared underweight and unremarkable. Possibly under-trained. Fenris recognized their grouping as fodder for blood magic. And while it was not Fenris’ concern, he wondered warily what purpose they would serve in his Master’s research into the red lyrium._ _

__The next day Fenris watched as one of the slaves was escorted down the long hall he had spent so long guarding alone. Chains rattled from the elf’s neck, wrists and ankles as he stumbled down the cold hall. Their eyes met for a second as the driver knocked on the door. The slave’s expression showed little else but a quiet resignation Fenris had seen on the faces of many as they walked to the blood altars. Something under its surface searched Fenris’ eyes, looking for some form of connection, a last recognition from someone he was permitted to seek it from._ _

__Fenris looked away. This elf was beneath him. The door opened and the elf was pushed into the faint red glow of the work room._ _

__Fenris’ ear twitched to the sound of his Master beckoning him a second later and he cautiously entered the space._ _

__The apprentices were gathered about, checking over notes and readying tools, Varania glowering at him from where she stood with the corroding and glowing chests. Illuminated sigils of wards burned white on the walls, their light almost enough to light the large table where the slave had been stretched out, limbs locked in place. Fenris blinked, released a breath slowly to calm the fears that bristled and tensed deep inside, and looked to his Master._ _

__“Watch him.” Danarius did not look up, his gaze trailing calculatingly over the elf’s bared body and to the sliver tools arranged before him. “The results of this experiment will prove unpredictable, be vigilant Fenris.”_ _

__Fenris would not have slept that night if it weren’t for the tonic his Master pressed past his teeth. His dreams were clouded with blood, with red crystal veins that hummed and screamed inside of his mind. The dark caverns around him again, a man cast in shadow looking over his shoulder to him with his bow drawn, whispering an unheard warning. Fenris woke in a cold sweat at the foot of his Master’s bed, dread spreading within when he remembered that the slave was still floors beneath them, locked to the table._ _

__Every day Fenris stood in the room, back against the wall, staring at the grains in the table. Watching the light reflect in the fluids that pooled upon its surface. Anything to avoid watching directly, his knees bent and shoulders loose, ready to pounce should the twisted red _thing_ on the table tear from his restraints. He would occasionally blink away, when the sounds became too loud, only to be met with Varania’s cold piercing stare. An expression that made Fenris shrink and return his eyes to the table, stomach flipping at being caught looking away. _ _

__The first slave lasted three days. Master Danarius was impressed, discussing details with his apprentices who wrote figures down, before ordering Fenris to dispose of the body. The corpse was heavier than Fenris expected. He scrambled as he almost lost his hold on it, stomach twisting at the juxtaposition of bloody exposed flesh and the hot, hard crystal that burst forth from it._ _

__The lyrium sang._ _

__A broken melody whispering to Fenris’ markings, the prickle and searing from before growing as he carried the body from the basement to the yard. It wanted his lyrium, wanted to flow into it as dye into clear water. By the time he dropped the disfigured body in the yard he was covered in a cold sweat, hair caught against his face as he gasped hard for breath. He turned to vomit against a wall, gauntlet cold as he wiped his lip and returned down to his Master._ _

__The next day another of the expendable slaves was stretched upon the table, this one whispering what sounded like a prayer in common as the bounds were put in place. No one listened or acknowledged him. The experiment was done again, the details and methods shifting. Days later the slave was still, the red lyrium having burned out his insides, the smell of it strong in the air. Fenris disposed of him also, this time having to force himself not to think about the purpose of the experiments. What he knew, inevitably, would come of them._ _

__Four more slaves died upon the table. Fenris was backed against a wall, his breath coming quick and choking him, his brain carding through images and dreamscapes he could not pick apart. The room swaying as he clawed at his breastplate, fighting for breath and balance. His vision cracked into light and black fog. Hands grasped his face, gently, fingers brushing the hair from his eyes where they darted like a trapped animal’s._ _

__His Master cooed a soft, soothing sound to him, thumbs stroking his temples in slow circles._ _

__“Hush my pet,” He whispered, privately so that they would not be heard in the crowded room. “You have done so well. I will not permit you to suffer as these lesser slaves have, no, not you. You trust your master, don’t you Fenris?”_ _

__Tears were stained upon Fenris’ cheeks as he breathed slowly and nodded, thankful and undeserving of the kindness given to him in this shameful moment of weakness. His Master steadied him until his breathing returned, fingers running long strokes down his cheeks. When Danarius stepped away Fenris saw that the mages in the room had taken no interest in the exchange. Except for Varania, her eyes darting from Fenris to Danarius before narrowing at Fenris. Her eyes were tainted with a red that sung in the dark._ _

__It was becoming harder to track how many slaves Fenris had carried dead and disfigured from the basement. They had begun to blend together in his mind, one continuous experiment over weeks, now only one elf gasping as the red clutched to its lungs and grew from the skin. The mages worked, discussed, wiped the blood from their smooth gloves. Fenris stood guard, the fear and vigilance spiking through him the few times a glowing festering limb threw itself against the bounds._ _

__One time the bonds had broken. The sound of crystal cracking in Fenris’ ears, the red lyrium materializing from the arm of the barely alive slave. It was angry, thirsty, reaching and flashed unseen teeth at the mages. Fenris’ sword ground against it as it grew out from flesh, the red glow beating heat against him like the breath of a dragon. He could not activate his lyrium this close, he could feel the red _desire_ the lines of his pure white lyrium. _ _

__He pinned it instead with his sword, pressing his full weight against the growing tower of red. His feet slipping on the blood on the table. His balance tipping as it crawled closer to him through the air. Fenris gritted teeth and growled, his head suddenly pounding as if it had been struck. _He had seen this before_. Not like _this_ but he had heard its call and felt this breath and within a second his mind spiralled from deep underground caverns to storm-beaten city streets and again to a dusty manor as the red sickness twisted in the air to tease the lyrium in his skin and _this was not the first time_ …_ _

__Fenris was shocked back to reality by hands pulling him backwards. The workroom came into clear focus, shouting and clattering of tools and the hair-rising sensation of cast magic all came upon Fenris at once. The red lyrium he was battling only a moment ago was dim, humming softly in his head but no longer the lashing threat it had been. It was a column twisting from the ruined slave body beneath Fenris and crawling along the ceiling like a crystal red tree. Fenris’ sword encased within it, the metal frozen in mid corrosion before him._ _

__Hands pulled him away and off the table, apprentices moving away from him the moment he fell back onto the stone ground. Fear gripped Fenris by the throat, everything had happened so quickly that his mind felt like a shattered mirror. As if his months of work repairing and recovering his mind for his Master had slipped away by the mere presence of the red lyrium that he felt _hunting_ for him. _ _

__Fenris glanced up through his damp hair to see his Master look away from him and to the lyrium column and the slave’s corpse under it. The apprentices gathered around the table with glowing hands and fast discussion about what had just occurred. Fenris could not regain his footing yet, his mind still reeling in fear of the living seething lyrium and the barrage of unwanted memories. But for now the red was quiet, seemingly tamed where it had grown, so Fenris had a moment to gather himself._ _

__Until a fist in his hair dragged him back along the stone. Fenris stiffened, limbs scrambling to protect himself as he was pulled to the back corner of the room away from the others. His back hit the corroding and glowing chests of red lyrium, their humming ringing in his ears as he saw the darkened veins and glowing red cracks in the hands that had him._ _

__Varania crouched in front of Fenris, the light from behind obscured her face except for the glowing lyrium red of her eyes. Fenris’ skin was gooseflesh, his breath stolen by the piercing look she pinned him with as she blocked him from the other mages and his Master._ _

__“You know, don’t you?” Varania’s whisper was a hiss, her lyrium poisoned hands shaking as her magic laced dangerously close to the surface. “You have known this whole time! You have been playing me for a _fool_ just waiting to stab me in the back!”_ _

__Her hands clawed at Fenris’ throat, the speckled red that had grown within her hands burning where it touched his markings. He twitched his hands up toward her wrists, an aborted attempt to defend himself against someone he knew he could not retaliate against. She choked him, the lyrium’s call heavy in Fenris’ head as his own lyrium demanded to be lit. He tried to remain still, water welling in his eyes as black spots clouded his vision._ _

__“You _know_ who I am!” Varania’s voice broke into a shout, Fenris twisted in her grip as his lips formed pleas that could not be heard. “You remember Kirkwall and you are just waiting to take your revenge on me! Don’t _lie_ to me Leto, you remember it all! I won’t sit idly as you plot my death!”_ _

__Varania was going to kill him. Fenris could feel the teasing energy of magic in her hands just waiting to be unleashed against the soft skin under her choking grip. She was going to burn his throat as he fought for breath against her tightening fingers. And he couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t fight back unless-_ _

__Danarius appeared behind Varania, watching with an unreadable expression. Fenris’ eyes locked with his, a silent plea for mercy before the elhven apprentice even noticed his Master loomed behind her. Varania continued accusing, her voice dripping with venom and a violent paranoia that Fenris could not begin to understand._ _

__His body jerked under her fingers and just as the darkness crept behind his eyes he heard his Master’s voice._ _

__“Kill her.”_ _

__Lyrium lit against Fenris’ bones, a light searing through him and transporting him from the fringe of unconsciousness to a sharp focus. Varania’s chest gave away to his armoured arm, the warmth of her blood and viscera erupting against his skin where it seeped past the steel. Her eyes dimmed, the red vanishing from them as her insides slumped and weighed against Fenris._ _

__Fenris gasped for breath as her hands fell from him, his throat bruised and head beating as he remained frozen with his arm pinned through the dead mage. A strange weight laid upon his chest amidst the blood and flesh that had slipped against him. A feeling he could not identify, some abstract regret he could not reconcile along the order his Master had given._ _

__He set the feeling aside, it was an unimportant as the paranoid rambling she had screaming as she tried to end him in front of his Master. She was gone, he was safe again, and his Master’s will had been done. There was nothing left to dwell on. His lyrium glowed again as he pulled his arm from the body and felt red lyrium inside the corpse rise and rush to his own. It brushed against him, touching his lyrium with a heat that caught like thick spider webs even as he shook his arm of the blood after. It had touched him, knew him, desired to nestle within his markings._ _

__Fenris stood on shaking legs, feeling on the edge of collapse. His Master’s hands steadied him at his shoulder, trailed down his blood soaked arm, turning it to inspect the dimming lyrium light. Still white and pure as sunlight in his skin, even under the blood. A second hand cradled his face, Fenris’ unfocused eyes inspected as his mind slipped close to something like sleep._ _

__“You have done well for me today my little wolf,” Danarius whispered, the praise comforting and thick sending Fenris closer to exhausted sleep. “You will be so perfect when all these experiments are done, you will be made so much stronger for me. You have proven yourself worthy again, haven’t you? Worthy of new strength and glory for your Master.”_ _

__Fenris’ eyes eased closed, his mind a clouded darkness of confusion, exhaustion and devotion. Because nothing else mattered but his Master’s approval, and to be praised and seen as worthy after all his weakness and shortcomings was more than he could ever hope to receive._ _


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to get on the suffer train! Violence and body horror ahead, take care out there.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, bookmarks and kudos <3 Feedback is love and I can't wait to make you all suffer more.

Fenris was worthy. He had pleased his Master. He had proven himself loyal despite the broken pieces inside of him and the years that had been stolen. Fenris was _worthy_. He had earned this. 

He deserved this.

Fenris held the thoughts close to the surface. Tightening his fingers around them. There had to be a reason for this. There had to be a purpose. He was _worthy_ and praised and valuable and strong and this was why his Master had put the red inside of him.

He had been stretched upon the table the other slaves had suffered and died on. But Fenris did not succumb as they had. He was much too strong, well crafted by his Master and worthy. A thousand voices had echoed in his mind as he laid bare before the mages. There had been ones that told him to fight, To _run_. To escape what his Master would design into his body. But Fenris silenced them as his Master’s fingers grazed along his forehead. 

Fenris would be what his Master desired, nothing less.

Master Danarius had put the red lyrium inside of him. He felt the sharp precision of the instruments against his brands, the magic sting that lit up within him. The red growled against Fenris where he was bound down, a hungry wolf baring its teeth before closing the distance to devour him. He remembered tears, he remembered pain and pleas that erupted from his belly. Uncontrolled and mindless as the red descended upon him.

The red entered his brands. Hot liquid poured into the markings. A dam burst and overflowing the rivers that had been dug into his flesh. It claimed him. It entered each vein of lyrium as it claimed him, the currents marked into him made for the searing biting force. It was thick in his limbs, cords of metal lacing through muscle and forming along bones. 

It invaded, licking burning hot from the inside. A fire seared inside of Fenris, blinding and all-encompassing. The red bit and forced its way until Fenris felt he was being ripped out of his own body, a trespasser in the flesh he had grown within. 

It whispered, gentle and cruel, plucking at the strings within him. Finding every fear and pulling them open, grazing teeth against them before simmering down into a gentle hum. The melody somehow calming despite the way it itched at Fenris’ mind and clouded his thoughts.

Fenris could not remember the days after he had been made full of the glowing red. It fragmented and crumbled and rotted at a touch. His mind was nothing except the clawing and singing of the red inside of him. It watched him as he slept, humming as it burned under his skin. It pulled around his memories and thoughts, catching on the black void Fenris fought so hard to ignore. It demanded its way in and Fenris could not fight it, not when it forced as much control and ownership of him as his Master did - only from inside of him.

The red warned Fenris that his Master would grow tired of him, find fault in him, that Fenris would have to fight and work harder than ever to keep his worth. It circled around Fenris’ devotion to his Master, as if to protect it, unwilling to burn the pureness of it. It instead was content to feast upon the dregs and fragments that floated in the darkness. It whispered ' _were you truly captured by the Quinari?_ ’ before chuckling at Fenris’ fear. It pulled and stretched the flashes of memory until they were altered and coloured. The caverns were now made of red lyrium, creatures made of stone moving towards him, a man’s grip pulled him from the ground and commanded him onward. The same man repeated in a chain of cracked memories, red spread across his face as he stood before qunari. The man’s eyes following Fenris as fire surrounded them. The man above Fenris as his hand slipped under his tunic-

Fenris’ mind erupted into flames. The fire scorching and painful and _hot_. Fenris grit his teeth, growled against it. The wild thing within him, the thing he had fought to tame since his Master rescued him, ripped through him. It twisted with the red, infected and feral. Fenris’ muscles were tense, the brands burning hot as the rage became him.

Fenris awoke days after the red lyrium ritual with the red wild thing formed within. Even awake, sitting on his bed in the quarters his Master had allocated him, he could hear the distant song that echoed from inside of him. But now his Master was with him, inspecting the red lyrium brands that burned hot under his skin. His Master’s presence was a balm, an anchor against the wildfire that raged within. 

Fenris was worthy and his Master had rewarded him. He was what his Master required. He could desire no higher honor. 

His Master cooed appreciation at his work, at how well the red lyrium took to the brands, how well his protections and barriers had saved Fenris’ body from undesired infection. He pulled back Fenris’ lips and hummed at how the lyrium had sharpened his canines. “Like a proper wolf”. And Fenris silently mused at the thought of biting through flesh. 

Danarius’ hands did not touch Fenris’ bared flesh. Fenris watched as his Master’s hands hovered, fingertips briefly touching to prompt him to adjust his limbs for inspection. A knot formed in Fenris’ stomach even as his Master praised the red lines across his body. 

“Beautiful” he said, “I look forward to seeing you utilize them-”

“It will utilize me.” Fenris answered, automatic and out of line. He didn’t even realize he had spoken aloud until his Master raised an eyebrow. He expected a correction, but found his body did not brace, and he could not drop his head in submission. He was still. Danarius watched him curiously, and did not punish him.

Fenris was locked in his quarters for the next two days to recover from the ritual. But Fenris did not need to recover or rest. The red had settled itself deep inside, curled up in his chest like some vicious dragon. Its fiery breath breathing through Fenris’ lyrium, forcing him to strip clothing and sheets away from him as he sweat and burned like a fever. 

He lay against the stone floor to sleep, only after exhausting himself with what training he could push himself through on his own in the small room. The stones were cool against him, but never for too long as his own body warmed them. Sleep was scarce, and when it came it brought dreams that were more vivid than Fenris could remember having.

Every dream brought the stranger to him, the bearded man with the blood across his face. Occasionally he saw others, faces that seemed familiar but he knew came from that dark void of lost years. The dreams dragged him through battles, through fires, and at times, warm hearths and lively taverns. But the red always accompanied him, clutching to his chest and neck with sharp claws, speaking too fast to understand. Humming its broken tune. Laughter that sounded like the crackling of a fire. It covered the dreams in red light, in smoke, in hazy fog that clouded everything until Fenris woke coughing on nothing.

When his Master finally came for him he was eager, ready to work, ready to fight. The brands were itching but too hot to the touch. They sweltered under his armor as he followed his Master to the training yard, glaring and barring his teeth automatically at every slave he passed. One young one dropped the plates she was carrying when she saw him, horror clear upon her face. Fenris growled, ready to punish her for breaking Master’s things, but his Master called him off.

Fenris’ trainer was waiting for him in the courtyard, a half dozen of the estate’s guard already doing drills behind him. Slaves Fenris had sparred and trained with before the crates of red lyrium were brought into the basement. Fenris knew they were jealous of him, and would be more now that he had been favoured by their Master again. A few paused to look over to him, eyes wide and Fenris could almost _feel_ their fear. His mouth twitched into a smirk. _Good_.

The trainer looked Fenris over as he approached, the man’s eyes sharp as they went to Danarius. There was something in the look that made Fenris tense, something questioning and traitorous. 

“His markings have been improved.” Danarius’ voice rolled down Fenris’ spine, relaxing where muscle had tensed. “He needs to adjust to its power, see exactly how the lyrium can be used now.”

The red was swimming inside of Fenris, rolling through his markings and brightening them into a red light where before it had simmered like hot branded steel. More of the guard had stopped training, watching Fenris with fearful expressions. The trainer was still, arms crossed, eyes flicking up and down Fenris warily. Fenris remembered the man looking him over with doubt and distaste when he was young, when the white lyrium was fresh inside his flesh. The trainer had only ever taught him swordplay, martial skills and the like. He never worked with Fenris on the special capabilities the lyrium gave him. 

Danarius looked to the slaves in the yard, who jumped and went back to their drills. Danarius’ eyes swept over them casually before bringing a hard gaze back to the trainer, “Which of these slaves is the strongest?”

The trainer’s eyes widened, quickly glanced to the elves in the yard to take stock before motioning to one who flinched at being identified. Danarius beckoned the slave to him, and as the slave bowed his head and obeyed Fenris watched the trainer’s expression turn to frustration. Fenris imagined the feeling of the man’s arm breaking in his grip. 

The slave knelt on one knee before Danarius and Fenris could see him shaking under the padded training armor. Danarius looked over him briefly, unimpressed before he spoke to him, “You will fight Fenris,” He ordered, “I want you to _kill him_ slave, do try your best.”

Danarius looked to Fenris, “Do not hold back, I want to see what the red lyrium has given you.”

Danarius and the trainer moved away, giving the two elves the yard. The other slaves had slowed to a stop, still as the chosen guard stood shakily to his feet and readied his sword. Fenris had no weapon. Didn’t need one. There was a pause where Fenris could feel nothing but the hot breath of the lyrium along his skin, a growling dog pulling against its chain. Waiting.

The trainer signaled the start of the fight. Fenris was swallowed by the red. 

It moved him, soldering itself to the fight instincts that were trained into him, so they moved as one. Fenris dodged a lunged attack before he saw the elf step forward, slipping into his ghosted state smoother than he had ever before. It moved him like liquid, his body swimming along hot currents between incorporeal and flesh and bone. Fluid as he moved, dodging swings of the sword and passing through the slave’s body as he cried out at the heat of it stinging deep within. 

Fenris was faster as the red pushed him through the cracks in the veil, time slowing outside of him until he formed again. The red sharpened, rose from the brands where they were not bound by armor, ridges of red from his skin as he barred his teeth at the terrified slave. Fenris’ hands burned, he tore the gauntlets from them and found the lines of lyrium had extended out of his skin. They lengthen into ridged blades from his hands, glowing red claws. 

He pounced forward, backhanded the slave to catch his face in the sharp red. Blood erupted into the air as the slave staggered back, a hand clutching at his ruined face as he cried in pain. In his mind’s eye Fenris saw his sharpened hand plunging into the elf’s chest, ghosting past bone to tear from the inside. But the red lyrium sung a sharp note into his head, interrupting. Before Fenris could recover from the ringing sound he felt his right hand twitch violently as the red pushed and forced its way in, thicker and hotter than before.

Fenris looked and found his hand encased in red crystal, fingers tense and twisted in pain as the red grew from the brands into a crude, sharp point. It pulsed with Fenris’ heartbeat, a light shimmering within it, it _hurt_ and somehow Fenris knew the only way to pacify it was with blood. 

The red blade erupted through the slave’s chest with a searing heat. The smell reaching Fenris before the blood sprayed on his armor. The slave gurgled, went limp, unable or unwilling to fight against the crystallized lyrium inside of him before dying. 

The body slid from Fenris’ lyrium blade and fell upon the flagstones with a wet sound. The courtyard was silent, but the sound in Fenris’ ears was so loud he shook. The lyrium singing and buzzing and ringing inside him as it slowly retreated back inside his body. He flexed his fingers, the joints sore but otherwise undamaged by the deforming blade that had grown from it.

Fenris expected to be exhausted, as using his old lyrium so extensively would drain him. But instead he felt invigorated. He licked at the blood in his mouth, his sharp teeth having cut him at some point, and looked to the slaves in the courtyard. They stood shock-still, rabbits frozen in a field before a starving wolf.

Master Danarius ordered another forward. Fenris’ mouth twitched, his breath heavy as he waited for the order to kill this one as well. 

The second slave stood even less of a chance than the first. 

The third slave brought forward managed to slice against Fenris’ forearm before the lyrium crystallized around him. But the wound was cauterized by the lyrium’s crackling heat. After the slave was finished and the flagstones were slick with blood, Danarius approached and hummed delight at the closed wound. How it showed no sign of infection, not even from the lyrium itself.

“It’s protecting its host,” Danarius mused, happiness painted broadly across his features. “It is established strongly enough that it isn’t trying to overtake the rest of your body. Oh, oh Fenris, you’re perfect. This is more than I hoped for. You are _stunning_.”

The praise felt cool against the heat inside of Fenris. He closed his eyes and bowed his head to his Master, silent gratitude and pride sweeping through him. He longed for his Master’s hands in his hair, against his cheek. But no touch came, he was instead sent to the baths.

The slaves in the baths were frightened of him. He had no doubt they had already heard of the elves that had been ripped apart in the courtyard by his lyrium blades. He was pleased by it, but reined in what he could of the hot lyrium growling within so he could fulfill his Master’s desires. 

The bath was run cold and Fenris sighed as he eased himself into it, the bath slaves looking to each other at his response to the icy water. They slipped close, pouring soaps and herbs into the bath water and shampoo into their hands. There was hesitation to touch Fenris, he had to force himself to be unassuming and soft before them, the cold water helping edge down the aggression under his skin. 

A slave touched his scalp and hissed as she pulled her hand away, whispered “He’s burning hot...” under her breath to the other. 

Fenris closed his eyes, listened as the hummed tune in his head eased into a muffled near-silence. He heard the slaves whispering, “The water is so cold, I didn’t understand why we needed to chill it for him…”

Their voices fell away as they worked, filling jugs with cold water and pouring them down Fenris’ head and neck as he curled and hummed in appreciation. The water warmed the longer he was in it, despite the chunks of ice one slave brought and slipped into the water. They eventually managed to scrub his skin down with padded cloths to protect their hands, ran shampoos and soaps along his skin by mixing it with the icy cold water. 

As Fenris was dried he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the mirrors. The lyrium brands he was accustomed to seeing in their dull white across his dark skin now glowed red. The glow was burning low like a simmering log on the fire. The red light reached his eyes, which upon closer look Fenris realized had completely lost the green that once looked back at him in mirrors. His eyes were red, a small light hazed around them. He called to the red lyrium experimentally, felt the fire stoke happily inside him as in the mirror the red brightened and lit. The slaves started, their eyes darting along the markings as Fenris cooled them again. 

Bathed and dried with his hair brushed and a shimmer dusted across his cheeks and shoulders, Fenris expected the house warden to escort him to his Master’s quarters. But the man turned away from his Master’s bedroom and instead towards Fenris’ own small quarters. Fenris stood at the crossroads in the hall, unwilling to follow the warden, instead _wanting_ to see Danarius. The warden called his name, a warning, one Fenris knew would bring sharp punishment if not heeded. But still he hesitated. The red moved restlessly inside him. He wanted to serve his Master, wanted to be by his side, wanted those hands across his body. 

The warden said his name a second time and Fenris dragged himself to obey. Somewhere past the desire and the red lyrium, Fenris questioned why he would hesitate to follow orders. He was nothing without his loyalty and obedience. He knew that, and he had fought so hard to prove that he was unsullied by his previous capture. 

But the lyrium twisted around the thought, humming louder than Fenris’ own thoughts. _Why doesn’t your Master want you in his bed?_ Fenris entered his quarters, heard the warden lock the door behind him. Pointless, as Fenris could easily phase through it, but the message it sent was clear. _Your Master does not want you tonight_. Fenris huffed a frustrated breath through his nose, curled up on the cold floor and laid awake through the night as the lyrium toyed with the string that connected his loyalty to his hurt pride.

The following day Danarius had a meeting with the Venatori. Fenris was dressed in his armor, the heat thick beneath it as Fenris stood to his Master’s side, where he belonged. His Master brought Fenris with him as he greeted the mages. All their eyes went to Fenris, and Fenris could not stop himself from meeting each and every one of their gazes in turn. It was improper decorum, but the red seethed and growled at the suspicious men. The men that questioned his Master and pried and doubted. Fenris would not allow them to doubt his Master’s magic and intellect. Not anymore.

At first there was no discussion of red lyrium or politics. The meeting proceeded in Tevinter custom, small talk matched with appropriate offerings of food and drink brought in by the loveliest serving slaves. A few of the men’s favored body slaves appearing to refill glasses, to silently remind them of Danarius’ hospitality and wealth. Fenris watched each of the mages, his mind did not wonder or fall into forgetfulness like before, this time he studied each of their expressions. He heard each word. He stared down the ones who had touched him before, allowing his glowing red gaze to intimidate them. To understand how his Master had triumphed the challenge they had goaded him into. 

“Your slave has forgotten his manners,” The Venatori who had first had Fenris spoke, his eyes peering back at Fenris’. “And he is _glowing_ red. Do you intend to dangle this achievement before us all night Danarius?”

Danarius closed a hand around Fenris’ forearm, the grip soft but commanding, and Fenris dropped his gaze from the mage. “Fenris is still adjusting to the red lyrium in his old brands,” Danarius explained, his voice dripping with pride. “But he has taken to them better than expected. He is more powerful than before, he cut down three of my strongest guard within seconds without a weapon. Madness and deformity has not taken him and there are no signs of infection.”

The mages leaned forward, their eyes darting up and down Fenris and back to Danarius as they listened eagerly. Fenris kept his eyes down but lifted his chin, the red lyrium purring a heat through him that lit him brighter than before.

“The wards I developed to protect from the psychological effects of the lyrium were cast within the lyrium brands before the red lyrium was injected into them, as well as wards to protect his body from deformity and blood magic that protected the loyalty within his mind.” Danarius continued, “The other subjects before him had their bodies destroyed by the lyrium, and even with similar safeguards there had been nothing to contain the red lyrium in so it spread and ruined them. Fenris’ lyrium branding had contained the power, the lyrium is complete within them and protects Fenris’ body as it acts as a host. His strength is immense, he is quite a sight.”

There was a silence for a time, as the mages considered and looked to one another. They did not seem fully satisfied. One spoke up, “What about side effects?”

Danarius’ lips thinned, “It is too early to tell.” He answered stiffly, “So far, Fenris is hot to the touch as a result of the lyrium. When the lyrium is fully active his touch may be hot enough to leave a light burn-”

A mage snickered and Fenris glared at him with barred teeth, anger stoked under his skin and he wanted nothing more than to silence the man that dared laugh at his Master. He was ignored by the mage who spoke smugly, “That concerns none but _you_ , Danarius, although you have my condolences. He was such a pretty thing.”

Fenris felt his insides knot, anger tangling where he could not release it. His Master held a hand out to him, low so those at the table might not notice, telling him to settle as one might a barking hound. 

Danarius continued as if he had not been interrupted, “He sleeps uneasily and, as you can see, the red lyrium still induces an anger that cannot be fully controlled by the wards. Although I ensure you, Fenris will remain loyal.”

“We will need to see a demonstration of this loyalty,” The eldest of the mages spoke, his gaze lazy but predatory, like a great creature watching its prey limp before it. “And his new abilities, of course. We have invested a great deal into this research of your Danarius, we require proof of your claims.”

Danarius bowed his head in respect, his eyes calculating as he turned to Fenris, who was ready to do _anything_ to prove his devotion and loyalty before these questioning fools.

His Master ordered him to kneel and Fenris dropped to his knees, ordered him to bow and Fenris pressed his forehead to the carpet an inch from the hem of his Master’s robes. With a short order Fenris was licking his Master’s feet, another order and Fenris was on his feet removing his armor. His head did not swim to do such things before the men, not like before, let them watch. Let them see how loyal he was. 

When his chest was bare, the red lines rolling with fire under the surface, Danarius stepped up with a silver dagger in his hands. Fenris’ breath came heavy, hissing the word _please_ as his Master rose the blade to his ribs. Fenris listened carefully to the order and obediently begged his master to spill his blood to show his loyalty. The blade slipped shallowly under his skin, scraping close to bone as the blood beaded and dripped from the wound and over the burning hot lines of lyrium.

The lyrium inside growled, gnawed on Fenris’ bones, twisted and clawed demanding a release of the pent up anger inside of him. But his loyalty was unshakable. It was protected, as his Master had said, and it was unaffected. Even as the lyrium whispered _if you failed this test he would throw you away, you are useless to him outside his peers respect_. Fenris ignored the voice, felt grateful as his Master told him he did well, his magic knitting the wound closed.

Danarius called to one of the serving slaves, brought her forward to stand before Fenris. She was slight and meek and trembled where she stood. “As before,” Fenris’ Master ordered, “Show them the full extent.”

The lyrium roared in Fenris’ head. Liquid heat filled his arm and crackled as crystal formed from claws to the one mangled and sharp scythe from his hand. As effortless as taking a breath, Fenris’ body closed the space between him and the slave by cutting through the veil, the woman’s body impaled before she could make a sound.

The Venatori men appeared impressed, murmuring quietly amongst themselves as the slave’s body was taken from the room. As two slaves quickly cleaned the blood from where it spilled on the carpet. Danarius reached out to Fenris, as his to brush the hair from his eyes, but hesitated. He nodded instead, whispered a small praise and looked away. Fenris felt pierced. 

“I assume these demonstrations will satisfy for tonight, there is much more Fenris will be able to provide once he is more acquainted with his new abilities.” Danarius spoke, his voice stern and commanding over the Venatori who sat before him. 

“Will you be creating… more, like this?” One of the younger Venatori spoke, Fenris felt a strange chill run down his spine.

Danarius turned to the man, narrowing his eyes, he was silent for a moment, “Fenris is unique.” He said, voice stiff. “He is result of _years_ of research and the sum of my work. To create another like him would cost more than _any_ of you will be able to pay, not to mention years you do not have.”

The Venatori looked to one another, the silence thick and unpleasant. 

“Perhaps,” The eldest spoke again, “Magister Danarius, you would be able to adapt your methods to something that would better suit the Venatori’s goals.”

Danarius was quiet, Fenris’ lyrium wanted to tear the mages apart for belittling his Master. 

“Perhaps.” Danarius smiled stiffly. 

“Excellent.” The man smiled unkindly. “And in the meantime, we have an operation we believe your little 'wolf' will be perfect for.”

“Oh?” Danarius’ stiff smile remained. 

“Tell me Danarius,” The Venatori mage continued as he picked up his wine glass, “Have you ever been to Ferelden?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for you patience everyone, after this chapter we hit the strides of the fic I am extremely excited to write so I will hopefully be getting chapters out more often. Thanks for all your comments, bookmarks and kudos <3

Sunlight teased against Hawke’s eyes as he blinked awake. The light glowed red in the sky, the sunrise lazy and warm. Hawke stretched against his bed, rolling a shoulder as he reached across the sheets. The blanket had been stripped away carefully and the sheets were bare and rumpled where Fenris had been. 

Hawke’s heart skipped a beat. He pushed himself to his elbows, his breath caught in his chest at the thought of Fenris slipping out in the middle of the night. Fenris had promised him he wouldn’t leave without waking him first. Hightown wasn’t safe at night and Hawke feared what could happen to Fenris if he was found alone. 

Hawke caught Fenris’ gaze by the fireplace. His eyes reflected slightly in the low light, his body silhouetted by the red glow of the stoked fire behind him. “Hawke.”

Hawke slumped back against the pillows, “You scared me.” He admitted as he rubbed at his eyes. “I thought you had left.”

Hawke caught a glimpse of a smile on Fenris’ face as he turned back to the fire, embers jumping and crackling as he adjusted the fresh tinder. “It was cold,” Fenris said, “even with you sweating on me.”

“But not too cold for a shirt I see.” Hawke smirked at Fenris as he turned away from the fireplace to give him a look.

Hawke lifted the blanket in welcome as Fenris climbed back into bed, tucking his head low against Hawke’s chest. Hawke dropped the blanket, tucking it close to the elf before resting his cheek on the top of Fenris’ head. His hair smelled of citrus, the scent of the imported soap he had bought for Hawke’s bath. He was breathing slowly, his breath warm against Hawke’s chest even as he shivered.

“Still cold? Want another blanket?” Hawke shifted, wrapping an arm around the shivering elf in his bed. “There’s another in the bureau I can- ah! Your feet are _cold_!”

“Mhm.” Fenris agreed before brushing a foot against Hawke’s leg, purposefully. “And no, I would prefer if neither of us left this bed.”

Hawke smiled, he knew Fenris’ usual schedule had him up at the crack of dawn and out of his mansion as soon as possible. He liked how that changed when they were together. “I told Varric I would meet with him later.”

Fenris made a small sound against Hawke, “He can wait.”

“But what will we eat?”

“I am sorry Hawke, you may starve.” Hawke could hear the smile in Fenris’ voice.

“A small price to pay,” Hawke kissed the top of Fenris’ head and pulled him tighter. The sun was rising through the window, quickly now, the light bright as he closed his eyes against it and rubbed his face against Fenris’ hair to-

To be rattled awake by the wagon rocking. His hands flew out to brace himself as the wooden farmer’s wagon shook around him, uneven as it rolled across what could only be a smattering of rocks on the road.

The ride evened out, Hawke rubbed his face as he heard quiet murmuring and a horse snort outside. He had probably slept enough already. The sun shined through the open back of the covered wagon, much lower than it had been when he had first crawled back here among the sacks of grain and layered wools and furs. 

He gathered himself up and climbed out of the moving wagon, boots hitting rough road surrounded by sparse trees and pasture fences. The wagon continued down the path as Hawke stretched and turned to catch up with it, eyes scanning the landscape. Beyond the wild pasture lands dotted with cattle he could see a river. The Minater River, hopefully, unless the farmer’s estimated arrival time was off.

Hawke jogged a few steps to the front of the wagon, grabbed the surface of the bench and hauled himself up easily next to Elias. The elf moved to allow him space, “The rock slide wake you up?” he asked, a small humorless smile on his face.

“Looked recent,” The woman driving added, leaning forward with reins in hand as she looked further down the road. “This is a trade road so it’s usually kept clear, but who knows with all these mages running amok lately.”

Elias smirked dryly at Hawke, silent frustration all over his pale features. Hawke had been travelling with Elias on and off for the past two years after he had completed his joining and began wearing the Warden colors. His dry sense of humor had darkened over time, his gaze harder and skin paler than before. He wouldn’t talk about the joining, the Warden missions he went on with the others, nor would he address the mage and templar clashes that had increased over the same time. 

Hawke hoped he was a positive influence on him, although he was sure traveling with a mercenary who was once the Champion of Kirkwall might not be the most comforting thing.

“Are we close?” Hawke asked the woman.

She grunted in response, “About an hour away. You should be able to find someone heading to Kirkwall, if not tonight then tomorrow; there are always travelers. It’s about a day’s ride from there if you get yourself a horse.”

Elias nodded and turned to give Hawke a small questioning look. Hawke hadn’t decided if he was going to continue with Elias to Kirkwall or if he would go a different direction. The borders of the Marches felt safe to travel through these days. As long as he was careful not to stay in any place too long no one seemed to question or recognize him. The Tale of the Champion was popular, but luckily did not do much to make Hawke recognizable on sight without his war paint on.

The past two years had been hard, but Hawke had found a rhythm within it he was able to keep to. He would spend some time with the Wardens, a month or so perhaps to help train new archers or travel with them as they crossed the Anderfels and northern Nevarra. Then he would go back to his mercenary travels, visiting the letter drop locations to see if Varric had sent him any new correspondence, doing a few jobs before hitting the road again. It kept him busy, kept him moving with enough to occupy his hands and his mind.

Things had gotten more complicated as the mage uprising grew in scale and brutality. The Chantry had finally caught up with Varric after his book climbed in popularity, and though Varric’s letters ensured Hawke that he was fine, that he could take care of himself and wouldn’t let them know where Hawke was; the letters had become more and more infrequent. 

Months ago, a letter had told Hawke that Danarius had been seen without Fenris after a lengthy absence and Hawke had assumed the worst, drinking himself to sleep every night at his camp unable to convince himself that Fenris was still alive. However the most recent letters Hawke had received after Varric got tangled with the Chantry simply implied that there were ‘rumors’ in Tevinter and that Fenris was still alive. The letters had been short. Hawke hoped there would be a new one tonight to tell him more. 

They arrived at the town as the sky dulled to red and orange hues. It was little more than a traveler’s rest; a small knot of shops, a stable and a tavern at the center of smaller farming settlements. Hawke had passed through here before and was comfortable in the small isolation of these places. 

Elias was uneasy, but then again he had been uneasy for the entire trip. They helped the farmer unload her shipment, collected the small protection fee that had negotiated at the beginning of the trip and set towards the tavern.

“Finally.” Elias hissed as soon as they were far enough from the farmer. “She complained about mages the entire time you were sleeping.”

Hawke waved the conversation off as the heads of two villagers turned to take in Elias’ Warden armor. Elias made a face but kept quiet as they entered the tavern. The place was small and cramped, old stone walls pressing tables and chairs close as newer wooden walls extended where masonry crumbled. A barmaid was busy lighting lanterns, a few locals paused their drinking to turn and look at the elvhen Warden, an elderly man leaned across the bar and grinned.

“A Grey Warden!” He exclaimed, “Been a while since I seen one of you around here! Step on up lad, have a drink!”

Elias and Hawke took a seat at the bar as the man filled two tankards for them. Hawke made a conscious effort not to ask for any letters addressed to him, not right away at least... He and Elias had not talked about Fenris on this trip yet, and Hawke wanted to suspend any concerns about his own well-being for as long as possible. It was better to have the people around him pretend he was was fine. 

“An _elf_ Warden.” Hawke heard one of the locals at the near table murmur before making a disapproving sound. Elias ducked his head and eyed Hawke.

“Well,” Another answered quietly, “they recruit criminals don’t they? Mages too...”

Elias rolled his eyes and threw back his drink. The barman seemed to notice, his gaze darting from his regulars to the two at his counter. “You two staying the night?” He asked.

“Yes.” Hawke answered, “We have had a long day’s travel, a room would be appreciated, as soon as possible.”

The barman nodded and went to speak with the barmaid while Hawke finished his drink. He appreciated the anonymity the road gave him, but he also liked how quickly things were done for him when he traveled with Wardens. Even if not everyone gave them the respect they deserved.

He looked up from his empty tankard to see Elias had turned in his seat to glare at the table of locals, who had not dropped their disparaging remarks. 

“You know,” Elias said loudly, ignoring the look Hawke tried to throw at him, “the Hero of Ferelden was an _elf_.”

The men quieted, their tankards settling on the table as they shared a look amongst themselves. Hawke watched their expressions, the subtle change of posture the youngest of the men made before he twisted in his seat to narrow his eyes at Elias.

“Hero of Ferelden was a criminal too, wasn’t she?” The man’s shoulders were loose, his feet squared under where he sat. His eyes were red from drink, his words slurring slightly. He was ready for this to escalate, was egging Elias on.

“Warden’s are not criminals.” Elias glared, his hand on the counter turning into a fist.

Hawke placed his boots to the ground silently, wishing there was a way for him to stop Elias from taking the bait _without_ empowering the drunk local. He instead looked to the barman, who was sending the barmaid upstairs towards the room as he eyed the simmering altercation.

“Oh really?” The man answered Elias, a smile revealing crooked teeth. “How’d you become a Warden then, elf? Did you volunteer? Did you just dream of dying underground your whole life? Or did you figure you could _fool_ the rest of us into respecting a knife ear?”

“That’s enough,” The barman scowled as he rounded the table, snatching the man’s half-full tankard as he passed. “I’ll not be having that with a _Warden_ about.”

Elias did not ease up as the man turned to mutter something unheard to his table mates, who chuckled quietly with him. Hawke wanted to reach over and squeeze Elias’ arm reassuringly, but he knew it would only make him feel worse.

“Your room is right upstairs gentlemen,” The barman said as he made his way back behind his counter, not hiding his displeased glances towards the table of quietly cackling men. “I’ve just sent my girl to start a nice fire in there for you. We don’t have much, but should you need anything-”

Elias stood, stool screeching under him as he grabbed his pack and stomped past Hawke impatiently. He mumbled a word of thanks before vanishing up the narrow stairway the barman gestured to.

Hawke sighed as he sat back on his stool. In the past months Hawke had been hanging onto his own sanity by a thread, drinking too much and fighting to hide the dark that danced behind his eyes. It was easy for him to forget how difficult things were for others, especially now with Thedas being turned inside out. He would need to talk to Elias, try and see what it was that was wearing away on him, he was too young to be so troubled. 

“Excuse me,” Hawke turned to the barman, “I may have had a parcel or letter sent here ahead of me, under the name Malcolm Lark?”

Hawke and Varric had not been very creative with fake names.

The barman pulled out a box full of letters and parcels and began shifting through, repeating the fake name over and over until he pulled a plain envelope out and handed it to Hawke. It was in Varric’s familiar handwriting, no return address supplied on the brown utilitarian paper.

Hawke held it carefully in his hands, fingers pinching only enough to feel the thickness of the pages inside. This letter was longer than the previous ones he had received. Perhaps Fenris _was_ dead and Varric had written Hawke a long and winding appeal to him to _move on_ and not drink himself to death. Or perhaps, possibly, Fenris was safe, and the length of the letter was simply to make up for the short ones Varric had written while in Chantry custody. Maybe he was released and finally able to explain what had happened fully.

Either way, Hawke couldn’t read the letter here in the tavern. Not with Elias stewing in his anger upstairs. He took his copy of The Tale of the Champion from his sack, which was now full of old letters and notes, and slid the unopened letter between two pages. He nodded to the barman and picked up his sack to head upstairs.

“Hey!” He had barely reached the narrow stairway when the man from the table called to him. 

Hawke closed his eyes, knowing he should just ignore the drunk troublemaker and go upstairs to his room. But there was a small part of him that had been waiting for the man to address him directly. Honestly, for anyone to turn toward him with some sort of vitriol. He turned his head to the man, who was now standing on unsteady feet.

“You should rein in that elf,” The man sneered, his friends at the table trying to block their grins as they watched Hawke. “Warden or not, he needs a muzzle, like they do in Tevinter yeah?”

Hawke’s sack fell to the ground. In two quick steps the distance between them was closed and Hawke’s fist met the underside of the man’s chin. His teeth clapped sharply against each other, tongue caught before he fell back on the table with a clattering of falling tankards. The other men jumped back, shouting as ale foamed across the table and the struck man struggled and eventually tumbled down to the ground.

The room turned silent when Hawke’s gaze came up, searching for anyone who would challenge his decision to shut the drunkard up. Even the barman collected his jaw, fisting a dishrag in his old hands as he looked pleadingly to Hawke. 

While not satisfied, Hawke decided it was enough. Had to be enough. The small fire that burned in his belly had not been put out by the violence, but had only served to dampen Hawke’s mood further . He dug in his pocket for the sovereigns the farmer had given him, placed them on the bar’s counter before ducking his head and heading up to the room.

He wandered up to the room slowly, each footstep rattling his thoughts as he nursed his sore knuckles in his hand. He couldn’t keep a hold on them, his worries and fears never forming enough to see properly. They passed over him like wisps of smoke, enough to choke but never enough to grasp. He thought he was doing better, he thought he was getting a better handle on himself.

Hawke remembered the letter. Nestled in the book in his sack, unopened, containing whatever it was that would eat him alive for the next few months. Perhaps the news would convince him to give up on feeling anything anymore. Hope had become too heavy to carry.

The room was small and cramped, but at least had two beds and a locking door. The hearth was ancient but the fire it contained was warm and inviting, its light quivering across the small room. Elias was sitting on one of the beds in his shirt and pants, his Warden armor and unused sword on the ground in a heap over his pack. He didn’t look up when Hawke entered, instead stared at the fire with an unhappy expression.

Hawke dropped his bag at the foot of the opposite bed and shrugged off his cloak and fidgeted with the buckles on his dark padded armor. He was tired, from the travels and the almost-fight downstairs. Once he sat on that bed he knew there would be no moving him until morning. 

Elias glanced over curiously as Hawke dug the book from his sack, the young elf's eyes flicking up to meet his. "There was shouting downstairs." 

Hawke nodded as his thumb ran over the book's paper edges, worn from the years knocked around in his bag. "There was a fight."

Elias smirked, made a small huff of a laugh, "Didn't sound like much of a fight."

"It wasn't." Hawke gave Elias a small smile. He still didn't feel good about it, not like he maybe should have. But if it cheered up Elias it was worth at least that.

Elias' smile twisted further at that, stretching slightly before settling back against the wooden headboard of his bed. "So are you coming to Kirkwall or are we parting ways tomorrow?"

Hawke dropped to his bed, his body feeling heavy, wary. He hadn't made a decision yet. Elias was heading to Kirkwall to catch a ship to Ferelden, beyond that Hawke did not know the Warden's orders or plans. He knew that Elias wouldn't tell him even if he asked. The Wardens had gotten more and more secretive over the few years Hawke had been working with them. He had thought they would have gotten more open with him as their trust grew, but apparently the opposite was true.

"I haven't decided." Hawke shrugged, resisting the impulse to settle himself properly into the bed. He instead dropped the book next to him and busied himself with his boot laces. 

"Are you scared to go?" Elias tilted his head, before his gaze caught the book at Hawke's side and narrowed. "Or are you scared to _leave_?"

Hawke pulled off a boot and shook his head, "What's the difference?"

Elias smiled, a sympathetic and sad expression that Hawke couldn't hold eye contact with. Hawke knew the answer to his own question, thankfully Elias knew that too. There was a thick yet understanding silence as Hawke unlaced and pulled off his second boot and kicked them away.

"I got a new letter." Hawke said, eyes down as he tightened the knot on his red token. 

"Oh." Elias answered. Hawke didn't look up to see his expression. "When was the last one?"

Hawke scratched at his beard, wondering what the chances were this little tavern had a bath. "A while ago." Hawke evaded the question, "Right after our last trip together."

"That was nearly six months ago." Elias' voice was quiet, calculating. In the few travels and short times they had spent together Elias had kept a close eye on Hawke. He rarely pried, not since Hawke had laid everything out all the time ago when he had received Varric's book, but Elias just seemed to _know_. He put things together easily and had a gaze that saw through Hawke.

"Yeah." Hawke agreed, looking down at the book at his side to see the crisp paper of the letter poking out from the pages.

"You know," Elias adjusted, putting his hands under his head casually. "I didn't want to say anything but you look terrible. Like you aged ten years since I last saw you."

"You don't look so great yourself." 

Elias laughed, bending over himself slightly. The laughter lasted longer than Hawke would have expected. 

"Haha, yeah, fair." Elias smiled at Hawke, that same sad smile from before. "But, you still haven’t actually answered any of my questions Hawke. Are you coming to Kirkwall with me or do I need to wait for you to read this letter first?"

Hawke held eye contact with the elf for only a moment, breaking away when it was clear that Elias could read the fear in Hawke's eyes. 

Without a word Hawke fished the letter out from between the pages in the book. Elias looked away instantly, suddenly interested in his toenails as a thin wall of privacy for Hawke to read. The envelope tore easily, the folded parchments inside were thick with Varric's hurried handwriting double sided across several pages. A lump formed in Hawke's throat, his heart thumping hard and obstructively inside of his chest. He wondered what the odds were that the entire letter was about Fenris' death. 

He swallowed down the fear, knowing that months of _not_ knowing had already taken its toll on him. 'Ten years' aged, according to Elias, who didn't even know the extent of Hawke's self abuse and wallowing grief that he was only just holding at bay. 

The letter was dated from only a month ago, making it relatively current. The letter started with a winding account of the imprisonment and interrogations the Chantry had put him through. Guilt gnawed at Hawke as he read how long it had gone on, how much Varric had protected not only him but also their friends. How he had mislead the Seeker (whom he had written at least paragraphs describing for some reason) away from knowing that Anders had survived and fled, what actually happened to Orsino, and how he had explained that Hawke was 'looking for Fenris' but had feigned ignorance on _where_ exactly.

Apparently the Seeker had at some point become emotionally invested in Hawke's story, and was willing to drop her search for him 'for now'. Hawke breathed a sigh of relief, glad that his hunch about the Chantry dropping their hunt for him in light of _everything_ else that was happening was true. He would still need to be careful, of course, but he could relax somewhat. For the first time in years. He wondered how he would be able to do that with Fenris still lost.

"Elias," Hawke looked up after reading the next page, "Are you going to the Conclave?"

Elias frowned, looking up from his feet slowly, "What's that?"

"Some uh," Hawke looked back down at the pages in his hands, "Some sort of meeting, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes-"

"What's _that_?"

Hawke shook his head, "You don't know- ah, it doesn’t matter. You haven't heard of it though? It’s some meeting with the Divine that’s supposed to settle the mage-templar clashes."

"' _Clashes'_ " Elias echoed, narrowing his eyes as he looked away. "Haven't heard of it."

Hawke nodded silently to himself, wondering what it _was_ Elias was traveling to Ferelden for, if not for that. 

Varric explained that he was heading to the Conclave himself, although it was unclear from what he wrote exactly _why_ he was going. Hawke assumed it was to be some sort of witness for what had happened that night in Kirkwall that had arguably set off this entire powder keg in the first place. Hawke wondered what this would mean for their correspondence, if Varric would still be able to send him regular letters or if he would still be able to keep in touch with his contacts in Tevinter.

Hawke felt guilty at the thought, years of only communicating with Varric through letters, his friend putting himself in danger to protect him. With Hawke having only written three letters back over the years. With Hawke more concerned about the connections Varric had than about Varric himself. That couldn't be right, that wasn't the person he was, was it? He would have to ponder over that later.

 _'I'm sure you're eager to hear if I have any more information about Fenris'_ The next part of the letter read, as if Varric could hear Hawke's thoughts through time and distance. ' _I know the last letter I sent wasn't particularly encouraging. I hope you didn't take it too hard and are taking care of yourself. I have been in contact with my cousin, and I have some really good-bad news for you.'_

Fenris was alive. 

Hawke closed his eyes as his chest swelled, a bittersweet rush filling him as he knew, for sure this time, that Fenris was out there somewhere. Breathing and alive, somewhere far from here, but still _alive_. 

Hawke read on, squinting at a name he had never seen before. ' _Venatori_ '. Some sort of Tevinter political cult, magisters and mages that the Archon and the Magisterium had openly denounced. Tevinters that even _Tevinter_ didn't want associated with them. Fenris had been seen alive, although there were no details to the sighting, and apparently some known Venatori conspirators had been seen around the Danarius estate. More than once. The signs added up and were not good. Varric warned in his writing that the only good thing about this discovery was that the Venatori were moving south, and Hawke might _finally_ have a chance to track Fenris down outside of Minrathous' city walls.

A shaky breath rattled through Hawke's throat. Elias looked up again, expression open and searching Hawke's. 

"What is it?" He asked quietly.

Hawke smiled, the expression cracking and twitching as he realised he had no idea of how should feel, "Fenris is alive."

Elias' eyes widened slightly, piecing together the picture clearer than before, "Oh, good, that's good news."

Hawke looked out the darkened window, forgetting for a moment it was night and he would have nowhere to go until morning. He felt a burning need to move, to discover all he could about the Venatori; all their movements, find when and where the cult would appear so he could stalk them. So he could interrogate and slaughter until he found where Fenris was. So he could find what had been done to him over the years. 

His hands shook and he had to press them down in his lap to steady them. "I can find him." Hawke said the words out loud and they felt foreign. This felt like a dream. Hope and dread locking up together in his chest. "I can _actually_ track him down and find him now."

Elias didn't look excited, relieved, or even happy for Hawke. He looked worried as he glanced back at the letter, "Did you finish reading it?"

Hawke frowned at him, gathering the pages back up, "No but- Don't you see? It’s been _years_ and finally..."

"Hawke please," Elias cut in. "At least finish the letter and sleep on it. You're scaring me a bit, I don't want you to rush into anything-"

Hawke made an annoyed sound and Elias shut his mouth, an indignant look taking his face before he pulled up the blanket on his bed and rolled over under it.

The rest of the letter winded off with sentences Hawke found he couldn’t care about. None of them satisfied the burning need inside of him to _do something_ , they only dragged him back, slowed him down. He skimmed the words, his mind racing elsewhere, trying to plan where he could find more information. Where he could go to intercept routes out of Tevinter. 

The last part of the letter changed tone. Demanding and striking in only the way a worried and frightened friend can be. Varric warned Hawke not to rush after the Venatori. That they were dangerous, especially if he went after them alone. Varric explained that there was a chance they could meet after the Conclave, since there was a rumor that Venatori might be heading to Ferelden to try and take advantage of the mage uprisings.

There was a paragraph at the end of the letter that made Hawke freeze as a chill ran over him. _'I hate to say this Hawke, but if I were you I would try to prepare myself for Fenris to be someone completely different. It has been nearly four years. If you aren't careful this could end with one of you killed. Please Hawke, please be careful.'_

Hawke put the letter away. 

The fire had died down to a slow warm glow. Elias had not looked back to Hawke, but was clearly awake. Hawke still did not know if he was going to accompany him down to Kirkwall, or Ferelden. But now felt that Elias had made good sense when he told Hawke that he should sleep before making any rash decisions about what to do next. 

"Elias?" Hawke said quietly.

Elias made a small noise but did not roll over.

"I uh, I read the rest of the letter." Hawke felt awkward. "I'm going to wait ‘til morning to make a decision on where I'm heading."

"Get some sleep." Elias said flatly.

Hawke frowned at his strange tone but couldn't argue, he was exhausted anyways. He pulled the scratchy blanket over him on the thin mattress, thankful he was sleeping inside for once. He tossed around a bit, finding a comfortable position, but sleep did not greet him as quickly as he had assumed it would. The silence was filled in his mind with trailing plans and thoughts and fears, all new, all fresh from the letter. He tried to forget the last thing the letter had said.

"Not sure how well I will sleep like this." Hawke admitted. "My dreams have been pretty bad lately."

Elias laughed, a hollow and unfeeling sound that made Hawke jump.

"I _barely_ sleep now Hawke." He said. "If I yell in my sleep don't bother waking me up, it won't help."

Hawke fell asleep with an arrow of guilt caught in his chest.

-

Hawke awoke the next morning with the only dreams that clung to him being fragmented pieces of his childhood in Lothering. Picking red apples one moment that seamlessly branched into the town square full of refugees from the Blight. Fenris passing him with neither noticing each other, strangers, Anders and Isabela and Hawke's old grocer milling about the same wagons as well. The moment slipping into him and his siblings tumbling down a muddy hill into a creek, the creek replaced with an ocean, the ocean sinking them as Hawke fought the waves to grasp a giant steel chain that tethered him to a city on the coast. 

The images rose in Hawke's mind and receded almost instantly as Elias greeted him and they dressed and gathered their things. By the time they had left the tavern and stood in the sunny late-morning light were completely evaporated. Hawke knew Elias had not slept well, the shadows on his eyes darker than the were the previous day.

"So are you coming with me?" Elias asked as they perused a trader's stand, gathering rations and refilling supplies. "Or are you going to get in over your head in a rescue mission, _without_ me there to bail you out."

The morning had cleared Hawke's head. He felt more rational about the situation, the hope in his chest lightened but not a force that would run him to the edges of the world quite yet. 

"I'm not going to run off and get myself killed." Hawke answered as he inspected the only bundle of arrows the trader had that weren't only intended for game hunting. "I'm not exactly sure where I should be headed though. Might be smarter to steer clear of Kirkwall a while longer."

Elias made a face, rolled his eyes and paid for his supplies. Clearly unhappy at the prospect of having to travel by himself, possibly unhappy about having to go back to Kirkwall at all. Hawke had forgotten to consider what that might mean to Elias.

It took about an hour for them to find a caravan of fur traders that were heading south. Negotiations were made and Hawke found himself roped into accompanying Elias for at least half the distance to Kirkwall. Apparently he looked more formidable as protection than Elias did, even with his Warden armor. He found he didn't mind, it would give him enough time to formulate a plan of where he should head to start tracking the Venatori's trail.

By midday they were both on the road, trailing the packed wagons by a couple strides. The relative privacy allowed Hawke to fill Elias in on what exactly the letter had said. Elias was quiet, frowning slightly at mentions of the Venatori. By the time Hawke was finished the elf was giving Hawke an raised eyebrow of what looked like disbelief.

"So you are going to go after a _cult_ of Tevinter mages." Elias said flatly.

Hawke shrugged, "What choice do I have?"

"Do you remember the slavers you saved me from? You could barely handle that and they _weren't_ mages."

"Ah," Hawke smiled, trying to roll Elias' concern off of him. "But I've learned since then haven't I? Haven't tried that again."

"Yes, but now you're wanting to go after _Tevinter mages _and whatever slaves they bring with them."__

__Hawke gave Elias a look, "So what's my alternative? Just leave them to it?"_ _

__Elias rolled his eyes, "I'm just saying that-"_ _

__A sound ripped through the air and they both clapped their hands over their ears. The sound ripped through Hawke's _mind_. His skin turned to gooseflesh as a burst of light flared past his closed eyes. There was a cry he recognized as Elias, a horse screeching in fear and something akin to static rolled across him as he wavered on his feet. _ _

__Hawke was shaking by the time he opened his eyes, his brain flickering from present to Kirkwall four years ago, the stone rubble crashing around him where he stood as magic pulsated before evaporating around him. He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself back to where was standing on the dirt road. The light was wrong. Elias had fallen to the ground and was still covering his ears and head as he rocked slightly._ _

__His ears were _ringing_ and no matter how hard he blinked the light was wrong. The wrong color. His stomach turned as he looked up, the traders in the wagons shouting to one another as they pointed up to the blue sky._ _

__And the distant rip in the sky._ _


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hitting a stride with updates so you should be able to expect semi-regular chapters. As always thank you for the comments, bookmarks and kudos!

The iron collar around Fenris' neck was heavy. It was more cumbersome than any collar he was accustomed to wearing. It was weighted, layers of metals forming a ring that would not be easily broken. The padded leather that encircled his throat was of little comfort, for the collar was meant to be obstructive. It extended to the middle of his shoulders at its widest point, and his chin would rest against the top of it if he tried to look down to his feet. 

It had vibrated with magic when it was first put on, the Venatori's thin, meek ship slaves outfitting him as his Master watched with an impassive eye. The red thing inside of him hissed and curled away from the magic, his skin crawling as the runes infused in the leather made contact with his throat. It was choking, tighter than the actual collar was, restrictive where the magic tapped against the lines of lyrium on his neck. Using his own lyrium against him. 

He had bared his teeth at the frightened slaves, their salt-scented fingers shaking as they rushed to buckle the straps that looped under his arms. It reminded him of saarebas collars, the leather columns that enslaved the ox mages and rendered them powerless and weak unless willingly unleashed. It terrified him. The red animal inside was burning up hot, his brands glowing red as he shoved one of the slaves down and backed away like a cornered animal. 

"Hush my pet." His Master had spoken softly, but with a tone of distant disapproval. One that did not belong to Fenris. "I know it's... uncomfortable. But my colleagues require that some of our...." he paused, a sneer coming across his face as he affixed a large enchanted lock to the collar, " _arrangements_ " be changed for the good of the Venatori."

They had boarded a boat that night. A ship with no banner that slunk away into the darkness before anyone might follow the low magelight that hovered about the deck. The ship steered toward the torn green hole in the sky that had appeared only days earlier. Something buzzing in Fenris' head when he glanced at it. The green light reflecting in the black ocean.

As soon as Minrathous was out of sight the men aboard dawned their Venatori colors and robes. The ship slaves were taken from their tasks one by one as one of the mages used a fire spell to sear their symbol on their chests or backs. The air filled with a dark sense of celebration. Even below deck in Master Danarius' small, _humble_ accommodations, Fenris could smell the scent of burning flesh above the constant salt. Their cries muffled by the sound of the waves.

Fenris was still not called to his Master's bed, but was kept close. Fenris chafed against the collar, clawing at it when the red frenzied him into a fear he could not relax. Even with the magic at a near silent hum he _knew_ it was there, affecting him in some unknown way. Back in Minrathous he would only be collared for show, in soft colored leathers or gilded metal work inset with gems, or when his Master meant to instill obedience into him. The only time he had worn something like this had been when he was guarding his Master in the jungles of Seheron, when it was meant to protect Fenris from being stolen away, and it had stayed on until-

 _Red_. Painful searing red teeth in his mind. It bit it deep and tore until Fenris remembered the Seheron jungle, dark and hot, ferns trailing along his ankles and sweat plastering his hair to his face. Stumbling, his blade missing, dirt between his toes as he saw the reflection of eyes in the dark. Demons, or oxmen, or whatever it had been that separated him from his Master. He was tired. Too tired to fight. His mind told him _this is when the Qunari got you_ but his memory... his memory chimed with a different note. Something else stepped out from the undergrowth, he went somewhere else, somewhere warm and welcoming-

The ship rocked against waves and Fenris was suddenly back to himself, bracing on the ground as waves crashed against the ship in the night. Had he been dreaming? The days at sea were blending together. A storm raged outside and Fenris jumped to his feet, swaying as the ship rocked, and turned to the bed where his Master slept. He planted a hand against his Master's chest to steady him as the ship lurched in the waves. Within a second his Master cried out and Fenris was thrown against a wall by an invisible magic force. He hit the wall and fell to the ground as the ship continued to rock. He was shaking as Master Danarius hissed and healed a burn that Fenris had implanted on his chest.  
Fenris was careful to keep his distance after that night.

Weeks went by at sea. Most days were sunny and calm, and Fenris would follow his Master to the deck for fresh air. The sun beating down on him was too hot, the red rolling within him blistering and humming louder the hotter it was. It beat in his head like a second heartbeat, a unbroken rhythm playing some sort of melody that wavered and changed and stayed just out of reach. Fenris tried to listen for it as he looked out at the sea; it distracted from his confusion about where they were heading and why. Why the Venatori looked down at his Master as they passed, how they regarded Fenris greedily but with a disdain he could not place. Why his Master was so unhappy, why he put them on this ship when it was so clear he wished he was back in Tevinter.

"I fought to keep you with me." Master Danarius had said suddenly one evening, catching Fenris' gaze from where he sat against the door to his Master's room. His expression was critical, dark, and once again far away. The red inside Fenris swallowed the flinch his body instinctively moved to make. 

"They wanted me to keep you deep below deck, with the _other slaves_." Disgust filled Danarius' voice. "The other Venatori do not approve of your appointment as my bodyguard. Once we are ashore they will have you join their low-bred slave 'warriors', you will have to answer to any Venatori order, follow their slave drivers and fight alongside their slaves."  
There was a touch of amusement in Master Danarius' voice, as if to say ' _I can't wait to see them try_ '. 

His Master leaned forward in his chair, a finger beckoning Fenris closer. Fenris shifted on his knees unsteadily, still unaccustomed to the hefty collar at his neck, something he was beginning to understand was a condition from the Venatori. His Master's hand curled under his chin, a thin sheen of ice magicked on his fingers. The cold was soothing and welcome against the hot lyrium veins in Fenris' skin and he felt himself relax in the grip, his ears drooping as his eyelashes fluttered. The raging whispers within silenced.  
"No matter what happens," Master Danarius' voice was quiet but firm, one of Fenris' ears perked to listen carefully. "You _will_ remain loyal to me, won't you pet?"

"Of course Master." Fenris whispered. He had vowed to himself that he would never be stolen away from his Master again, not by Qunari, not by their Venatori allies, no one.   
Days later their ship was swaying gentling off the coast of Ferelden. The ocean met grey beaches, cold stones and cliffs that gave to far-reaching forests of needled pines. There were no cities, no towns and no docks for the ship to pull to, and yet the ship slaves busied themselves with the anchor chain and lowering large rowboats to the waves that lapped against the bough. Fenris followed his Master upon one of the boats filled with supply crates, a few other mages and a pair of ship slaves to row to shore. Fenris bristled at the state of their travel, his Master deserved better than to be rowed to shore like he was a smuggler or criminal. Master Danarius was a _Magister_. The red lashed its teeth, hissing of saboteurs, jealous Magisters that would banish his Master in his rough land and steal him for their own use.

But this was similar to when they had travelled to Seheron. When they went to fight the oxmen and Fenris woke every day expecting to be killed as he defended his Master on the blood soaked sand and in the dark jungles. He did not know what the Venatori wanted from him here, amongst their untrained slave warriors, but he had to remind himself that it was the _same_. They were at war, and he did not need to know the details, only needed to be pointed in the direction of the enemy. 

He would find glory for his Master in this strange place. He would make his Master's discomfort and inconvenience worth something.

Everything changed when Fenris set foot upon solid ground, just as his Master had warned him. The Venatori mages stepped off the small boats and grinned at the misty forests before them, as if they held some treasure they could not wait to plunder. They smirked at Danarius, an untold political shift in the air that Fenris did not know well enough to properly follow. The ship was unloaded of its supplies, of the mages' belongings and their elf slaves who bent their heads as they gathered their masters things from the beach.   
The warrior slaves came last. The red inside of Fenris lashed its teeth as the slaves stepped down from the boats onto the stones. They were large, taller and larger built than Fenris was. They shivered, their exposed arms and chests dotted with gooseflesh in the cold Ferelden air. They were chained with collars that matched the one that Fenris had been forced into, wide with dangling padlocks, but extended with metal links that tethered closed steel helmets over their heads. They were faceless, their breath heavy clouds that echoed against metal, and as one turned towards Fenris he realised what they were. 

Gladiators. Career brawlers that lived tethered in Magister yards when not chained in the tunnels under the Minrathous Colosseum. Kept like dogs and thrown into fights to the death against animals and beasts when not forced to fight each other. They were hulking, nearly the size of qunari, scarred across their exposed skin. Fenris watched as their ankles and wrists were unbound, as weapons were handed out to their battle-hardened hands. They were not soldiers, they were untrained and possibly as mindless as dogs. They would not be the army the Venatori hoped for. Fenris wondered if the mages had simply been collecting the coliseum fighters to cheaply recruit for whatever war it was they had travelled this far for. 

The slave driver, shackles thrown over his shoulder and whip in hand, called Fenris by name after he armed the last of the gladiators. Fenris stood stone still, unwilling to part from his Master's side to join the rabble the Venatori had carted across the ocean. But his Master brushed a hand in a gesture to send Fenris away. The red burned under Fenris' skin as he tore himself from Danarius' side and joined their ranks. 

Fenris was at least a head shorter than all of the helmeted men. They turned to squint at him through the dark silts in the steel across their faces, no doubt sizing Fenris' slight elf frame up as they might have back in the coliseum. Fenris bared his teeth, growling as he showed the sharp teeth the red had given him. The red glow of his eyes and brands reflecting in the polished steel covering their heads. The slave driver narrowed his eyes at Fenris as he passed him, handing a blade to the slave beside him. Fenris was not given a weapon, but then he remembered, he _was_ a weapon.

They set off into the darkening forest as the ship slipped back across the horizon behind them. Fenris and the gladiators were arranged throughout the line of mages and their frightened slaves. Fenris did nothing to mask his distaste when the driver ordered him to a station far away from his Master, the red hot in his brands as he growled quietly, the driver running a hand along his whip as Fenris eventually obeyed. The gladiators were clumsy on their feet in the dark and seemingly too simple to manage a basic marching order, more keen to spin their blades in their hands and peering into the forest like unruly attack dogs. It was insulting to be forced to their level, pulled away from his Master to be set among _dogs_.

Camp that night, and every night following, had Fenris chained from his bulking collar to a iron pike magicked firmly into the rocky ground or cliff faces that filled the cold wilderness. The gladiators were tethered nearby but never close enough that their chains would cross. The lower portions of their helmets would be removed only then, exposing dry cracked lips and stubbled chins that ran with water as they drank, shoulders rounding over as they shoved rations into their mouth by hand. Like animals. They all slept in the dirt, surrounding the mage's tents that glowed gently from within. The sounds of music, drinking and conversation drifted from the center of their camp with Fenris' ears twitching whenever he heard the familiar but inaudible murmur of his Master's voice. 

On the worse nights, when Fenris was not kept awake by winds and rain or the shifting of the gladiators nearby, he slept soundly and dreamed.

He dreamt of the ocean. Dreamt of the nights he laid awake on ships rocking as waves crashed against the bough. He dreamt of the scent of salt and fish, carried on the wind as his bare feet hit worn city cobble and sandstone. He wandered through a worn city with iron chains that anchored into stone. He followed a man down the streets as they passed kneeling, shining slaves. Impossibly large, he looked upwards to see one covering his face in his still hands, hanging from the stone facades. He knew the name of this place with its devastated, trapped slaves. He remembered sand between his toes on white beaches, without a Seheron jungle in sight. The ground covered in red-tailed arrows pierced into the ground. 

A man moving towards him, red splayed across his face, his eyes missing in the shadow of memory that spiked and thrashed against the dream. A metal rod skewering the dream in its tracks as a red fog clouded him. Growling. Looking for the truth.

But on the better nights, Fenris did not dream and did not struggle against his mind when he woke.

Regardless, Fenris would wake as the sun rose every morning, brushing dirt and leaves from his white hair. He would find himself still chained to the iron and stone with the mage's camp just out of his reach. He tried to ignore the seething anger and paranoia that was growing in the red veins within. It sang and hummed and growled in low tones. 

_Master doesn't care. He doesn't want you. You are no longer favoured or precious. You sleep in the dirt. You are no better than the dull slaves around you. You-_  
The thought was cut off by a snapped branch. 

Fenris' turned to the sound, eyes wide as he lifted himself from the ground. The chain was heavy where it hung off his neck, reminding him to stay put. The sound was not followed with another, silence ringing around him between the twittering songs of the birds. _Something is out there_. The red was tense inside of him, winding, tight as a spring. _It will hunt you while you are chained, like bait._

Fenris tugged at his collar, the chain going taunt as the runes within it hummed a gentle warning. Whatever it was that was hunting him was out there. His sword had been taken the previous evening by the driver. He was as vulnerable as a rabbit in a snare. Even with the red lyrium lighting up inside of him Fenris was an easy target. A single arrow in this position could take away all the work his Master had done.

He closed his eyes and silenced the panic the red was fanning inside of him. He focused and it instead twisted and heated like molten lava within. The glow brightened and inside of a second Fenris' body ripped into the fade. Sharp spears of pain stabbed at his throat instantly, a half-swallowed cry tearing from his mouth as he reformed. The collar stung, dry and tight around his neck and suddenly Fenris understood its purpose.

They were enchanted to be unaffected by outside magic, to be invulnerable to any magical means of tearing the collar from his neck. His, specifically it seemed, was further enchanted to keep him from phasing through it. 

The red burned bright inside him; its flames licking the insides of Fenris' skull and behind his eyes as his hands ripped at the collar's immoveable edge. The runes inside seared against his neck, and Fenris dropped to his knees as he cried out again. Corrected. Fought down. The red lyrium inside him raged against it, all the obedience and docility trained into Fenris' mind and flesh silent and weak under its thrashing anger. How _dare_ they restrain him in this way. How _dare_ they drag him from his Master and strip him of the very ability that made him _what he was_.

The red clashed and spilled within like boiling water, Fenris hissing and grabbing at his head as it spilled over and burned his skin. He needed his sword, needed his hands deep in the red of someone's chest, he needed his teeth to cut and splay and he _needed_ to fight whatever it was that watched him from the strange woods around him.

"That's _enough_." A voice struck, stilling Fenris where he struggled on the ground. The slave driver stood above him, whip in hand, eyes narrowed like daggers digging into Fenris' skin. "Your shouting woke the entire camp, slave."

Fenris twitched as the anger rolled down his side, and again as it rose to his ear and settled in the back of his head. Hot. Red. Fenris pulled himself to his knees and then watched the expression on the driver's face change as he stood and held his chin high before him. 

"You insult my Master."

The slave driver blinked, expression dangerous, "Don't talk back to me _slave_."

Fenris' lips twitched into a smile, sharp canine grinding in his grin, "Are you _scared_? Is the Venatori scared of what Master Danarius has created? Is that why you locked me in _this_?"

Fenris tugged at the chain attached to his throat, the thick collar jolting him forward at his own strength.

The driver held his gaze, a gleeful smile breaking across his face as he spoke "I heard Danarius' _pet_ had rotten manners. I was hoping for the chance to _correct them_."

-

Hawke dropped from a tree to the forest ground on unsteady feet. Vision spinning as he stumbled forward, grasped a tree trunk for support, and vomited.

A whip crack sounded far behind him as his shoulders shook, cold sweat beading on his face as he heaved again. The forest spun around him as he pressed his face against rough bark, squeezing his eyes tight to try and erase the image of Fenris - _Fenris_ \- collared and chained and crying out as the Tevinter's whip split open his back. Red lines across his back, blood dripping, red glowing from him, his eyes... Fenris' _eyes_.

Hawke vomited again, barely missing his own shoes as a bubbled cry burst from his chest. _Fenris_. Years of hoping that he might see Fenris again and now- Now he had messed up, caught Fenris on edge and somehow he had gotten him _punished_.

He reached for his water with shaking hands, swishing the water through his mouth and spitting it out before pouring the remainder over his face. It was cold, shocking against his skin, settling him back into a more rational pattern of thinking. He had to get his wits back, he had to pull himself together before-

Another whip crack, a soft cry, and Hawke fell to his knees. His hands clasped at his chest as if wounded, shaking, a strangled and aged cry coming from his burning throat as tears began to run down his cheeks.

It wasn't his fault. _It wasn't his fault_. He had heard the way Fenris had spoken, how he had egged on his own punishment. But even thinking that made Hawke's stomach turn threateningly. Fenris was a _free man_. He could speak with all the venom he wanted! But it wasn't true, and Hawke knew it although he refused to accept what he saw. /Everything/ he saw. This had to be some sort of nightmare, this couldn't be the reality he had waited almost four years to find.

The sounds from the clearing stopped and Hawke shuddered a slow breath and dropped his arms. He stilled himself, slowed his breath and studied the dry leaves and pine needles under his knees as he rearranged the facts in his mind, so he might decide on what to do.

Hawke had been in Ferelden for several weeks. Returning to his first home under circumstances that he never expected. Elias and him had arrived in Denerim, stuck together until Hawke had managed to find his first lead on the Venatori amongst the chaos the Breach had caused. On the road Elias had headed south, wishing Hawke luck in finding Fenris while remaining silent on where it was he himself was travelling. 

Hawke headed west, to cover the coastline where fishermen and hunters had seen unmarked ships mooring and robed figures arriving to the shore. Weeks he had spent along the coast, camping through ocean storms and watching the horizon for ships. His trail twisted through a series of small farming and fishing villages, their taverns loud with tales and rumors about the Breach and the mysterious Inquisition that had risen out of the ashes of the Conclave. 

There had been no stories that included a glowing elf that could phase across a battlefield. No descriptions that could even vaguely match Fenris' description. 

Varric was sending regular letters now that Hawke was in Ferelden and had given him his scouting route. The letters were short and to the point, with Hawke skimming their words for any information on Fenris or the Venatori that Varric might have sent. He knew Varric was in the Inquisition, but didn't care beyond the information it could bring him. The letters always said that Varric had not heard anything about Fenris, that he nor Danarius had been seen in Minrathous, and that he would keep his ear to the ground.

Hawke had continued to search and scout on his own. And one day the Maker had finally smiled down upon him after all his miserable years, and Hawke saw a ship on the water, sailing away from the shore.

It was days before he tracked and caught up to the Venatori company, sneaking through the underbrush he was once so familiar with. He kept to the shadows, stayed perched high in the old trees to watch their route and decide on his safest path to find them again. Without them finding him first.

The helmeted and collared men could never see him in the brush, even when they snapped their heads in his direction. The mages remained obvilous, and Hawke was happy to keep it that way. There were too many in the company for him to take on. 

He was reminded of how much he was outnumbered and outmatched when he spotted Danarius one morning.

A cold chill had ran down Hawke's spine at the sight of him. His mind racing back to that day back at the Hanged Man an entire lifetime ago. The way Fenris had looked at him, the waver in his voice before he stood up to the man that had _enslaved_ him and had the nerve to call Fenris 'pet'. He remembered the static in the air of the tavern. He remembered the mage's magic catch him and rip through his chest. The spell that left an long and ugly scar across his chest that would never heal.

He imagined, for a moment, taking his bow from his back and shooting one perfectly aimed red-tailed arrow into the monster's throat. But, he had reasoned, he had not seen Fenris yet. And if _he_ was here, that meant, that against all the odds stacked against him, Fenris might be here as well.

Hawke struggled to his feet, running a hand over his sweaty face, willing himself back to present and to get moving. He couldn't stay still with them so close, he was surprised he hadn't properly blown his cover already with that stunt this morning.

He had spotted Fenris the night before. Chained to a pike in some stone by a collar that was big enough for a saarebas. He had hardly believed it was him at first, thought that perhaps he was seeing a mirage or a particularly blonde and fit elf and getting carried away by hope. But it was _him_. His hair was cut shorter than he usually wore it, the hides he had once worn had been traded in for simpler and more roguish attire, his gauntlets replaced with minimal bracers to protect his wrists.

And he was _red_.

Hawke rolled his shoulders and leapt up one of the long pines that surrounded him, calloused fingers gripping bark as he hefted himself up with his soft leather boots. After about fifteen feet he paused, looking back out towards the clearing. A small smoke rose from its location, suggesting that breakfast was being made by the bastards' elf slaves. Hawke wondered how they were able to stomach anything after the display they had made of Fenris. 

Anger rolled in Hawke's stomach as he leapt to a nearby tree, catching it and using the burning force to run himself higher and jump to another. He swallowed up the anger, knowing there was nothing he could do now. Nothing that could be done today to rescue Fenris and make sure he was safe and away from these creatures.

Guilt prodded Hawke again, and that feeling would not be swallowed away. He couldn't help but feel fully responsible for what Fenris had endured, not only this morning but _everything_. It was Hawke who had failed all those years ago at the Hanged Man. And it was his own fault he had thought to perhaps approach Fenris this morning, after staying up all night imagining the steps it would take to free him. How Hawke could just slip to the ground, sneak to Fenris' side as he slept and pick the lock that hung around his neck and then take him to safety.

But he didn't, because Fenris had glowed _red_ all night. His eyes blinked a glowing haze that clawed at Hawke's memories. Made Hawke remember how in Varric's letters he had said, ' _Red Lyrium has been popping up all over the place_ '. Hawke didn't want to think about it. He didn't allow the thought to fester or take root, and had instead spent the entire night soaking up the image of Fenris sleeping near him. Eyes wet as he studied Fenris' every feature, recommiting them to his memory, refreshed and _real_ after years of dreams and shadowy memories.

And of course, by the morning he had convinced himself that Fenris could be rescued here. That the tragedy would end as soon as Fenris laid eyes upon him.   
Hawke was wrong. 

Terribly wrong. 

Fenris had not even _seen_ him but had heard him and knew he was out there. Hawke had driven Fenris into a frenzied panic, erratic and frayed as he thrashed against his collar like a rabid mabari. Growling and somehow _monstrous_.

Fenris' voice had burned Hawke's ears. Seared deep into his heart as finally he got to hear the sound of his love's voice. But the words were wrong. And Hawke realized that he was wrong about the situation, and everyone else's warnings had been correct.

And yet, Hawke found himself perched in a tree near the Venatori camp, scanning for Fenris among the figures. Because he could not just leave him, that was impossible. He didn't know _what_ he was going to do, but he was a damn decent scout and he was going to gather all the information he could.

He spotted Fenris down at the camp, right where he had been when Hawke had fled. The stone near him was splattered with blood but Hawke could see that his exposed back was partially healed, long lines still crossed over the unfamiliar red glow of his markings. The mages there could have healed him fully, lashes were not a difficult wound to treat with magic and Hawke gritted his teeth. Fenris was kneeling, his head hanging and a robed figure was crouching beside him, Danarius.

Hawke thought again of shooting his single arrow.

They were speaking but the sound lost under the busy sounds of the elf slaves cleaning cookware and packing the camp as the mages muttered to one another over a collection of papers they had laid out. Hawke considered trying to get closer, but knew now that Fenris would be watching for him - or whatever Fenris thought had made the sound - and decided against it. Instead he watched closely, swallowing anger down as Danarius extended a hand to touch Fenris. And then had to turn away when Fenris softened and nuzzled to the touch.

-

Hawke tracked the company for two more days. Fenris guarding the caravan of Venatori mages and the slaves that laboured under the countless packs and chests. Fenris eyeing the man who had whipped him. Hawke watched as the strange helmeted men fought off a group of bandits, shouting muffled Tevene as they barreled into the combat. Fenris hanging back, seemingly bored until a bandit ran at him and was quickly caught by what _looked_ like a sharp sheet of red glass that shattered when the man fell to the ground. Hawke watched as the elves scrambled to set up the camp, flinching at barked orders and Tevene phrases Hawke did not know. He watched as Fenris sat alone, the red glowing in the dark around him, gnawing on his lip and rocking slightly as he stared towards the lights of the camp.

Hawke remained somehow detached, like a man in shock after seeing how badly he was wounded. Or perhaps more like the blank void that overtook a man's mind before rushing into a battle that could kill him. 

He had to try and remain impartial at least.

He considered how he might write Varric a letter, asking for some sort of back up. For the Inquisition to come and kill the mages and the masked warriors and wipe the red clean from Fenris' eyes. Or just Varric himself, a friend who was a good shot could mean all the difference now. But even if Hawke wrote a letter he didn’t know when he could possibly break away from Fenris' trail to have it sent. The trail the Venatori had been on that twisted along the coast and south into the deeper forests before winding back out again, where were they going?

Hawke climbed a tree that broke over the needly canopy and stared out at their direction. Squinting against the bright sky Hawke was able to determine they were, generally, heading west. 

They were heading towards Denerim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'vr been posting thoughts and such about the fic over on [my DA2 blog](http://glowyelfboyfriend.tumblr.com), lots of yelling about venatori research and such. Come and yell with me!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter, we have more overt sexual abuse talk/mentions. Everything is either comments or off-screen tho. Take care.
> 
> As always thank you for the reads, the comments, kudos and bookmarks <3 I should have another chapter next week!

The forests of the Storm Coast began to thin as the Venatori slowly made their way southeast, towards the Bannorn lands and Hawke was finding less and less cover to hide himself from Fenris' red leering eyes.

He had been following the camp for just over a week. They were taking their time as they travelled, the mages clearly undisciplined for the hard travel conditions. The slaves had been struggling too, several had suffered twisted ankles and ripped heels as they carried the mage's belongings across the stone-ridden paths. The mages were frustrated by healing them but, luckily, Hawke had not needed to see another ‘disciplining’ like the one Fenris had endured. 

The helmeted warriors seemed to be doing better, as if the exercise and fresh air was benefiting them more so than the others in the camp. They ploughed ahead eagerly, scanning their surroundings for threats with an air of excitement. Hawke wondered what conditions these men had lived in before, they did not seem like any traditional sort of warrior, despite what their psyches suggested.

Fenris seemed lost. Listless with a glaze over his red-tinted eyes when he thought no one was watching him. There was a deep sadness in his gaze as it trailed over the company. Hawke tried to pretend he didn’t notice who it was in the crowd Fenris' eyes lingered longing on. It was easier to turn his own blind eye.  
Hawke would save him. He would clear that look from Fenris' eyes. Somehow.

His fantasies of rescue had to be put aside. The mission had become complicated, in ways that Hawke knew he wasn't fully aware or accepting of yet. He knew his obsession with finding Fenris had made him irrational at the best of times and now he was forced to sit back and bide his time. 

And it was difficult watching more and more complications unfold before him, like Fenris's longing glances towards _Danarius_.

Hawke was spending his morning on a cliffs overhang, sheltered by underbrush and a few young pines whose branches draped low to the ground, needling at Hawke's hair as he crawled forward to watch the camp at the bottom. The warriors and Fenris were chained the same way they were every time camp was made, this time forming a protective ring against the tents that clustered in the protection of the cliff. Fenris was at its center, this morning sitting on the ground facing away from the tents, ears drooped as a red color from his fingers ripped at the stone under him. The rock crumbled under the touch and Hawke wondered why Fenris didn't scratch out the peg that kept him tethered.

Hawke surveyed the rest of the camp, the other warriors were finishing their morning meals or stretching as much as their chains would allow, the elf slaves were split between tearing down the camp and finishing serving the mages that relaxed and chatting as they picked at what was left of their breakfast in a leisurely fashion.

Hawke's position at the top of the cliff gave him a rare advantage. The stone wall of the cliff naturally carried the sounds from the camp straight to Hawke's keen ears, their words clear and almost completely understandable. Would have been perfect if Hawke was more fluent in Tevene. But Hawke had been practicing and learning since his run-in with the slavers he had saved Elias from, he was nowhere near the level of a native speaker but he might be able to gather _enough_.

The first pieces of conversation were casual. Hawke recognized words and phrases, the conversation winding lazily around small talk about the food they had eaten (“ _better than nothing_ ” one mage had scoffed as the others laughed) and the weather and displeasure of walking so much. Hawke grumbled quietly to himself as the conversation shifted towards the slaves, picking out only some of the words (“slave” he knew well, “bad”, “ugly”, as well as a few lewd words were recognisable) until the conversation stopped when one of the mages addressed Danarius by name.

Another mage picked up the conversation, voice twisted with a cruelty and dislike that made Hawke frown in confusion. " _Your slave is still quite pretty, isn't he,_ Magister _Danarius?_."

Hawke knew enough of those words.

Danarius straightened where he sat, shoulders squaring indignantly as if the man had just insulted him. Perhaps he had. Hawke listened carefully, his hands turning to fists.  
" _Maybe they won't kill him._ " Or something similar, Hawke was rusty at Tevene at best and bad at the language at worst. The man chuckled and drawled a sentence Hawke couldn't pick apart with the tone and speed at which the mage spoke. What he said next was only slightly clearer, Hawke picking simple meanings from the words, _"Hopefully he is successful. Then you can be proud that he is good at something."_

Successful? The word stuck out amongst the others and tugged at Hawke. Successful at what? They had him do little more than act as a bodyguard, which Hawke knew was his original station before he had escaped. Was there something _more_ they were expecting of him?

Hawke's gaze wandered back to Fenris, who was still sitting dejectedly on his own, now seeming to be ignoring what looked like one of the warriors looking for his attention. Fenris was staring ahead at nothing, pile of shredding stone surrounding his limp red-lined hand. Hawke wondered if Fenris could hear before realizing how likely that was, Fenris had sharp hearing, and his attention always appeared tuned to his 'master'.

If Fenris had a response to the conversation he didn't show it.

" _What's the matter Danarius?_ " A man laughed and Hawke looked back to the ring of mages at the camp fire. Saw the distinct look of icy displeasure upon Danarius' face. An expression, Hawke realised with a small jolt, that he remembered seeing upon Fenris' own face.

" _He's just sad because he can't fuck his elf anymore._ "

Hawke gagged. His eyes shut tight as a snarl escaped him. His fingers tingled in the white-knuckled grip he had them in. He breathed out of his nose in a forceful rush of air. He put it aside. He closed the thoughts that ran of that man, that _snake's_ hands on Fenris. He stopped his thoughts from running with the desire to cut the throat of every tevinter mage that laughed at the “joke”. He calmed, he focused, he was stone and this was just _another mission_ right now. 

Hawke had missed a part of the conversation, the words having rolled past him when he was unable to focus and interpret them. By the time he caught knack to their words they had branched, " _-once we are there we can send your 'wolf' to assassinate._ "

Hawke blinked. Assassination. At least, he was sure that was what that word had meant. If it didn't mean “assassinate”, it meant something just as bad. 

Unfortunately the conversation turned after that. One of the mages had called out to one of the slaves who flinched instinctively as the man casually insulted him (“rattus”, Hawke knew that word), then asked if they were going to be ready to leave soon. This seemed to signal the end of the conversation as the mages all stood, stretching and moving away to gather and pack their more personal belongings.

Hawke pushed back from the edge, crawling backwards from his shelter of branches and pine needles. He sat up on his knees under the copse and ran a hand over his face. He had to do something, didn't he? Thedas had become such a perilous place while he had chased after Fenris' shadow and pretended the noise around him just been that, noise. But this was above him, this was something he had to be sure to pass along. 

He rifled through his bag until he found his copy of Varric's book, leaflets of letters folded and discolored where they peaked along the edges. He pulled a clean sheaf of paper from it, leaned it against the back of the book and started a letter to Varric.

He regretted that he didn’t know _who_ they planned on having Fenris assassinate. But he knew from his observations that Fenris' being used as a weapon against anyone by the Venatori could be devastating. He wrote a few quick scratchy lines to explain that he had found Fenris, realizing that the way in which he passed over that fact would tip Varric off that something was terribly _wrong_ , before listing the travel route the pack of mages had used and seemed to be following. He listed how many were in the company, including the warriors and the elvhen slaves. He left Fenris out of the count, unsure how to categorize him, hesitant to list him among the others. 

Hawke explained what he had heard, apologising for how minimal his information was. He tapped his thick lead against the paper as he thought of how to explain the rest. How to describe what it was he saw and feared in Fenris. How to balance that news against how elated he felt at times, seeing Fenris alive, the hope that shined inside him every night before he fell asleep. Varric wouldn't want to hear any of that.

Varric would want to know about the red lyrium.

Hawke left that part out. He instead explained his own future routes towards Denerim, where the Venatori seemed to be heading. Where he suspected the assassination may take place. He listed possible taverns that could hold letters for him so Varric might respond.

He signed his initial at the bottom of the letter, knowing Varric would recognize the ink-blotted 'CH' . He folded it carefully, reminding himself to find some wax to seal it with when he found somewhere he could hire a courier.

He would need to leave the Venatori's shadow and, hopefully, find their trail to pick up later. His heart ached at the thought of distancing himself from Fenris again, every foot felt like a mile as it was. But Fenris' safety was at stake, and perhaps his potential freedom if Hawke did not find a way to save him from his captors.

As much as he hated to admit it, Hawke needed help.

He gathered his things, patting down pockets under his cloak to ensure nothing was left behind. Nothing except Fenris. He left the safety of the underbrush and jogged silently, carefully along the cliff's edge, following the sounds of idle chatter and stones unearthed by steps. Down below he spotted the Venatori company making their way, saw Fenris following up near the tail, close to the slave driver. Hawke committed his image to memory, studying every detail, his heart thumping against him as he sent a prayer down to him.   
Hawke was out of sight before Fenris turned to look at the cliff's face.

-

Fenris had lost count of the days since he had left Minrathous and sailed to this unfamiliar land. Every day dragged him further from the life he knew and was accustomed to, further from his duties he had fulfilled his entire life, further from his Master. 

He was wary on his feet, the collar heavy and his back still stung as it healed the corrections that the Venatori had laid into his skin. He had nothing to occupy his mind except for the red that pulsed through his lyrium, hot and sharp where it dragged its teeth within Fenris. It pried and peeled at the wounds Fenris was trying to ignore, whispering angrily about how his Master was displeased with him. How the Venatori were plotting his Master's death, and possibly even his. It whispered that Fenris would never go back home, that he would be slaughtered by enemies unknown in this strange place. His body left to rot and be picked apart by animals as the company moved on without him, happy to be unburdened.

There was little else for Fenris to think of as he walked the stony paths and was tethered down night after night. His feet aching. It was improper for him to wonder about the nature of their mission out here in these cold woods, or question the decisions the Venatori mages made. But his red did not care for these rules and rolled over the thoughts like molten lava within. Fenris willed himself to ignore it as much as he could. The red would pick at the stitches in Fenris' mind, eager to unearth the terrors his Master had hidden away for him with undeserved mercy. 

Fenris fought to keep the red blistering force from undoing his Master's work.

After a time the dull, pulling paranoia of the woods and its shadows fell away. Fenris had been careful to try and hide it since he had been punished, but had felt as if something was watching him from the forest. Waiting for him to let down his guard. Licking its lips as it planned to prowl past Fenris in the night and devour the mages as they all slept. The fears were unfounded, as with everything the burning lyrium inside of him clawed into his mind. But impossible to ignore. When the feeling finally faded Fenris felt relieved. 

Forest and stone gave away to pastures, fields of long grass that swayed in the wind dotted with apple trees. They walked along side roads, paths used by cattle and field workers, the land around them rolling in lazy hills before rising to high mountains in the far distance. Farm houses and distant townships appeared and they avoided them all. 

The mages would stop for rests, sitting under shady trees and pour over their maps and mutter to one another as the elves collapsed to rub their callused and abused feet. The gladiators kicked at tall grass and fallen apples and paused to touch the boughs of the trees. The mages argued over directions as their speech became littered with names that Fenris recognized to be in Common. He stared at the horizon, unwilling to move from his statuesque position or glance towards his Master when he heard a name that sounded familiar.

" _Lothering._ "

Fenris frowned, eyes darting across the pastures again as if trying to follow the memory. Lothering. 

One of the venatori scoffed, his hand brushing at the map impatiently, "It doesn't even _exist_ anymore, your map is old! It was torn apart by the blight, so that town is more likely-"

The blight. Fenris frowned further. The town had been destroyed by darkspawn and all the villagers had fled. Wasn't that what had happened? He blinked and ran a hand through his hair, perplexed, how did he know that? When had he heard about a small and unremarkable town in Ferelden?

The fields and apple trees felt familiar suddenly, as if this was a place he had once been told about. A warmth caught in his chest that the red descended upon, curling around it and clawing at it happily. Anxiety filled the feeling, perhaps this wasn't something he was supposed to know? Where had he heard about this? It wasn't something the Qunari would have told him, it made no sense. The red flashed it’s teeth in the dark, a grin that sent a shiver down Fenris' spine. Its claws tapped inside of his head, his temples ached and Fenris shook his head and forced himself to forget as they picked up their travel again.

They moved faster on the easier ground, camping only one night in a small uncleared patch of forest before they neared their destination.

The mages were elated, joking and laughing among themselves as they neared a country estate. Fields of crops and grazing horses surrounded the simple stone walls that surrounded an aged and frankly, primitive-looking manner. It was built of the same grey stone they had walked among along the coast, built within a framework of rich red woods. It was no Tevinter estate, it would be dwarfed by Fenris' Master's mansion, but it was largest building Fenris had seen in Ferelden yet.

They were greeted in the small courtyard by the baying of dogs in a nearby kennel and a few men donning robes and draped fabrics adorned with the Venatori's emblem. The men approached with wide welcoming arms, pleasantries exchanged jovially, the air similar to that of friends meeting before a hunt or a exhibition. 

"Friends!" One cried, "Welcome to the Dog Manor!"

It was clearly a joke at the settlement's expense, the men all laughed.

"Ah," Another said, looking over the gladiators and elves that stayed behind the mages. "Good, we need more slaves, we lost two to the mabari - long story - and it'll be nice to see some uh, fresh faces around, hmm?"

The elves shrunk slightly and Fenris narrowed his eyes at them. Weak cowards.

"You can put the warriors in that warehouse over there, we had it mostly emptied out for holding them. If there isn't enough space in there we also had the stable emptied."

Casting a glance around, Fenris noticed the outbuildings of the “manor” were arranged in a very practical manner surrounding the small dirt and cobble courtyard. Each building looked at least a hundred years old, maintained but with no one taking the time or care to pull the weeds and grasses that had begun growing on the roofs.

The slave driver turned to the gladiators, whip snapping to the ground to catch their attention, "You heard him." 

The gladiators followed the man, tearing their keen and focused gazes off the mabari that growled and snorted in the nearby kennel. Fenris hesitated, looking for his Master. Surely now, with these new accommodations, the Venatori would allow his Master to keep his favourite in his own chambers?

Danarius looked over his shoulder and caught Fenris' eye, he narrowed his gaze, sharp. _Do as you’re told_ , it said. An icy chill ran from Fenris' spine down to pool in his belly. His lyrium twisted and barred its teeth like the war dogs that were craning their thick heads over the fences of the kennel to whine and growl. Fenris followed the driver.

"That's the one with the red lyrium isn't it?" One of the new men spoke as Fenris passed, Fenris' skin crawled. "I'd like to take a look at him later, I’m sure the others will as well. "

There were murmurs of agreement that waned and were lost as Fenris followed the gladiators to the warehouse. The building was old, dirt-floored and of an impressive size considering, how the rest of the estate looked. Inside housed a couple dozen warrior slaves. They all looked up as the company’s slaves gathered at the entrance and the slave driver squinted about. Many were more gladiators, ones Fenris could only tell apart from the ones he had traveled with by their varied scars and the mostly-removed painted markers on their helmets. But there were also others, smaller in stature but visibly strong and experienced. Men (and a few women, surprisingly) sitting upon the ground or the few crates and barrels left behind in full armor painted with the Venatori armor, swordsmen and archers alike by the looks of their gear. All were fitted with fetters and collars of various types. However as Fenris' eyes darted around he realized there were no elves.

The driver shouted a few orders and the house slaves moved to make way and show where there might be space to fit in a few more. About half of the gladiators from the company were found places in the warehouse, chains locking their collars or ankles to the spot, keeping them from getting too close to any of the others. Fenris found that he actually wasn't personally familiar with regular slave housing, not in situations outside of estates back home at least. He had always been kept close to his Master, so he didn't know if this was normal or not. The gladiators at least seemed unperturbed, and Fenris knew that they were chained like dogs when kept personally, like exotic beasts or vicious hunting dogs. Perhaps they could not be trusted to be too close together.

Fenris and the last of the company's gladiators were led away again, directed by a kitchen slave who was outside disposing of vegetable skins towards a long stable some yards away from the manor's yard. The horses had been removed, but the smell of them still wafted through the air. The locked stalls now housed more gladiators, a few of them appeared larger or dangerous than the ones at the warehouse, chained by wrists and ankles to the metal rings inside the stalls. They all looked up as Fenris passed, hissing breaths and ragged animalistic sounds muffled past their helmets. 

The driver set two gladiators per stall, confident they would house well together. The men sunk from their feet to the ground, seemingly thankful for the little housing they were receiving after weeks on the road. It must have felt familiar to him, to be housed and kept as beasts. 

Soon only Fenris was left. The slave driver walked him to a far off-stall, away from the chained men. He shot a sharp look at Fenris as he opened the stall door, the wood worn and chewed on the edges by some anxious horse that had been kept here once. “You're not going to give me any problems, are you?"

Fenris' lips thinned, teeth grinding to stop himself from releasing the words that were bubbling like boiling water inside of him. 

The driver gave a one-sided smirk, twisting the whip in his hands threateningly as he held Fenris' glowering stare. Fenris knew he should look down respectively, that slaves were not supposed to make eye contact with their betters, but he couldn’t hold back his contempt for the man, the disrespect that riled inside of him. 

But, unwilling to embarass his Master - again - Fenris walked himself into the stall and allowed the man to chain him by his collar and his ankles. The chains were purposefully short, so Fenris would not be able to move more than a step or two from the center of the horse's stall. If he were to try and sit he knew the chain at his neck would go taunt and prevent him from dropping further than his knees. The man did this on purpose, perhaps he had been waiting for the chance to put Fenris in his place in this more casual fashion since he had whipped him.

The man looked him over, eyes greedy, and Fenris snarled at him before he could stop his anger from spilling. 

"Careful." The man's whip tapped against the side of Fenris' collar, making his ear twitch. "You have a special mission soon, and you _do not_ want to be injured before it starts."

Fenris narrowed his eyes, the red jumping behind his eyes like embers crackling out of a fire. 

"I'll back to collect you later." The driver said as he left the stall, closing the door of it needlessly. "The others haven't gotten to see you yet."

-

It was several hours before anyone returned to the stable. The sun had set and cast the old building into darkness, save for the gentle red glow that surrounded Fenris. The slave driver returned with another man, one who shouted warnings and insults to the restless gladiators that growled as lamplight filled the aisle. Another driver perhaps, or a proper slaver. The new man swept his gaze over Fenris with a calculating eye, sizing him up. 

"Looks similar to the rumors we've been hearing about the templars." The man told the driver before motioning him to have Fenris taken out.

The chains were undone from the stall's sides, the one from Fenris' collar heavy where it hung between his throat and the familiar driver who guided him out by it. Like a leashed hound. 

Fenris forced himself to stay calm, convincing himself that they may be bringing him to his Master's room after all. The red still prowled, still stuck and dragged claws along his fears. He was brought to a side yard, next to what he assumed to be the kitchens. A few elvhen slaves were waiting, one or two Fenris recognized and one unfamiliar, each holding jugs of water. The new man ordered Fenris strip. Ears pinned and jaw tight, Fenris did as he was told. Once he was naked save for his bulky collar and connecting straps, the slaves poured cold water over him.

It wasn't a particularly effective form of bathing, but the cold water was welcome over Fenris' heated skin. Cooling and relaxing, similar to how a hot bath once felt. The slaves quickly scrubbed at him, washing away the sweat and dirt that had clung on him from their travels. Fenris allowed himself to be hopeful that this meant he would be kept close to his Master, perhaps, _finally_ , made useful to him in ways he had not been asked to be since the red had coated his brands. 

He was given new armor to wear, dyed black leathers that were not dissimilar to what he may have worn back home in Tevinter. It clung close to his skin, reinforced for battle, but enchanted to disappear with him when he used his abilities to phase along the veil. It muted the glow of the brands to a dull red. Before Fenris could get comfortable he was pulled inside by his chain.

Inside the manor was loud, surprisingly so. Sounds of laughter and singing and drunkenly loud voices carried down the empty halls. Fenris recognized it as the ambience of his Master's parties, could already picture the mages and Magisters in their Venatori robes relaxed with glasses of wine in their hands as they picked at platters the slaves dutifully carried in. It was strange to imagine a party like that here in this Ferelden house. It was so humble and meager compared to the marble-floored mansions Fenris associated the noise with. 

The halls were decorated with old wooden furniture, swords and the mounted heads of bears and horned goats adorned the walls between portraits of demurely-dressed nobles. Chests and cabinets looked forgotten where they sat, wooden and rough stone mabari models snarled under a blanket of dust. Fenris wondered briefly who the house belonged to, what old legacy had dragged it through the century it had been here. Were they friends of the Venatori? Or pillaged enemies? Fenris could not know.

A door was thrown open before Fenris and voices erupted into jeering and gleeful cries as he blinked against the bright mage lights that floated about the large room. It was little different to what Fenris had expected. All manner of mages and, most-likely, Magisters both recognized and unfamiliar were crowded into the room. Whereas the group Fenris had accompanied had five mages including his Master, the room swelled with the presence of at least thirty men in Venatori colours. Scattered amongst them were a dozen elves, clearly pulled from their serving duties to be draped over their betters, a few already still under roaming hands.

It smelled of drink and roasted meat and Fenris pinned back his ears in displeasure as he scanned the room for his Master, ignoring the gawking eyes and excited voices.  
"Ah, Danarius' _prized_ achievement!"

"I lost five slaves transporting that lyrium to the coast, five of my best, for this one here."

"A 'one man' army, didn't Danarius say? Strange, I see no _man_."

The red was boiling, searing under Fenris' skin when his eyes finally found his Master. Danarius was alone in the far corner, bottle of wine held firmly in his fist, his other hand touching his temple, his gaze far-away. Detached, disgust lost under layers of disappointment that Fenris could not help but take ownership of. Fenris had somehow failed, his appearance in this room brought humiliation to his Master.

His ears drooped eyes falling away before he was jerked forward by the chain taunt at his throat. His eyes darted forward to a man standing before him, his own hand wrapped around the chain the driver was still holding, sharp eyes cutting deep into Fenris. A scar splayed across his features, telling Fenris that this man was not cut from the same fabric as the mages and Magisters that surrounded them. 

"You're mine then? A little... smaller than I had expected, for a warrior."

Fenris bristled, his red growing hotter somehow, burning against the dark leathers and no doubt shining through them now.

"I am _Magister Danarius'_." Fenris snarled. 

The man chuckled, Fenris could see his own red reflecting in his eyes as they rolled over Fenris' body. "Indeed." He sneered, "I take it no one told him about the assassination?"  
Fenris had heard about the assassination, in passing, over heard when the mages he traveled with spoke over their meals and piled papers. They never directed their conversations to him, had not addressed him after his incident with the driver at all. 

"He didn't need to know." The driver holding his chain answered, seeming unsure as to whether he should let it go to the stranger or continue to hold it himself. "He's unpredictable, Quintus, the red lyrium makes him violent and disrespectful."

The man, “Quintus” Fenris supposed, seemed unbothered by this as he was Fenris' own rude response. "Nothing I can't handle, besides," He looked over his shoulder back towards Danarius, "Danarius _did_ ensure to us that Fenris is capable of this mission, didn't he? I'm sure if he is proven wrong and Fenris fails-" Quintus' sharp, predatory gaze returned to Fenris. "-or is killed by the palace guards, then we will know that Danarius isn't quite the genius he wants us all to believe."

Fenris growled, his fists shaking with the effort it was taking to stop the lyrium from springing from his brands and cut down the man who was openly _mocking_ his Master.

The men in the room were laughing, adding comments of their own, Fenris' Master said nothing. He glared about the room like a cornered animal, a strange fear in his eyes that made Fenris' neck prickle with pins and needles. Fenris realized suddenly he had to protect his Master from these Venatori, that the insults were only thinly veiled threats against his Master's safety in this strange faraway place. 

Fenris' ears pinned back, a cold fear running through him alongside the burning heat of the raging lyrium. Fenris had to be _successful_ to save his Master from humiliation, or worse. Fenris had dampened his Master's ties with the Venatori with his vicious tongue, with the loss of his trained manners and the twisted form of obedience his red lyrium reveled in. He had to make up for it. He had to bend and allow himself to be used as the Venatori pleased, regardless of what the red within him wanted.

"You will be coming with me tomorrow 'pet'," Quintus smiled, unthreatened. "We will be meeting a few of my agents in Denerim. You _will_ be good and obedient for me, won't you Fenris? Make your Master proud? Prove us wrong?"

A lump had grown in Fenris' throat under his thick collar, but he nodded, chain taut as he did so. 

"Good." Quintus smirked, taking the chain from the driver, holding it as if Fenris was no more than a delicate show horse."You have cost us a lot, Fenris, the red in your brands is worth more than you alone will ever be. But you want to prove you and your Master _aren't_ worthless don't you?"

Fenris nodded again, feeling like the red lyrium was burning holes within his stomach.

Quintus nodded, seeming satisfied and turned to the room, "What do you gentlemen think of pairing this one with a gladiator this evening?"

A nearby mage scoffed, "Shouldn't have the elf wounded before tomorrow."

"Or lose another gladiator." Another mage scolded.

Quintus made a small breath of a laugh, "Oh, I didn't mean for a _battle_...."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic violence versus people and animals in this chapter and some sexual talk about how the night in the last chapter ended. Nothing more intense then we have already seen though.
> 
> Thanks once again for your continued reading, comments, kudos and bookmarks! You guys are the best <3

The morning came quickly, Fenris having been too exhausted to dream. He woke in the stable and his chains to Quintus and another Venatori there to collect him for their travels. The green fields around the estate were blanketed in fog that rolled down from the mountains, the rising sun illuminating them into thick white clouds. The ground was damp under Fenris' bare feet as they started down through the pasture lands, heavy sacks against their backs.

Fenris cast a glance back to the manor before it was out of sight and his heart ached heavily. He was leaving his Master behind. The previous night, after Quintus' proposed _entertainment_ had ended badly, Fenris had been permitted to go to his Master's side. Master Danarius had stroked his face with cold, icy hands that settled Fenris' boiling lyrium and lulled him into a false sense of security. His Master said very little, but had made him promise to do well on his mission, promising that if he did he would be able to return to him.

Fenris imagined returning triumphant to the Venatori's surprise and dismay, imagined them bowing their heads to his Master in respectful apology for ever doubting his prowess. He imagined they would allow Fenris to return to his duties as bodyguard and stay close to his Master's side again. It was all he wanted. And while he was not permitted desires or goals as a slave, he knew it was what his Master wanted, surely, and that he was simply fulfilling his duties.

Still, it was difficult to think clearly about any of this when the red within him screeched and clawed about. _He's sending you away to die_ , it cried out inside of him. _He is shamed by your presence and is happy to see you leave, he expects you to never return_. 

Fenris knew that could not be the truth; his Master had fought for years to find him and restore him after he had been taken by the Qunari, it simply could not be possible that he would wish to see Fenris destroyed after all those years and a fortune spent on him. Fenris simply had to prove he was worth the sovereigns his Master and the Venatori had sunk into his burning red brands.

Quintus and his companion were faster on the road, more disciplined to travel and clearly familiar with the landscape they traversed. It wasn't until that morning that Fenris realized that neither were mages. Fenris' brands had a certain sensitivity to the veil and magic that made mages very evident to him, their mana in the air around them occasionally prickling and brushing the lyrium inside of Fenris. Neither of these men had it, Quintus himself appeared to carry daggers and the other had a short sword.  
By midday they had already passed a small highway trading post, a halfway point to Denerim. Quintus led them away from the roads, finding a small abandoned camp. It was against an odd rock formation within a cattle run, cows grazing nearby. They set down their bags and the other man crouched to start a small fire in the charcoal ring that had been left behind. Fenris was given a ration of fried meat he could not quite identify by taste and some small warmed potatoes. Quintus and the man shared a flask between them as they addressed Fenris for the first time that day.

"I wonder if they managed to heal that gladiator yet, hey Fenris?" The man Fenris didn't know smirked as he nodded towards Fenris.  
Quintus chuckled, "That _was_ a serious burn you gave him, and in such a sensitive place." His eyes were glinting in the midday sun, "It’s a shame, I've heard from a few magisters who had you before you were filled with red lyrium. A waste if you ask me, but who am I to question your Master's judgement?"  
Fenris frowned at the fictitious tone, suddenly losing his appetite.

Quintus smiled, seemingly entertained whenever Fenris's red flared through him, "Shall we discuss the mission then?"

It hadn't really been a question. Quintus and the other man explained the plan to Fenris, everything that he would need to know to be able to carry out the task they required of him. They were going to disguise themselves as rebel southern mages when they approached the city, seeking asylum from the rogue templars that were, apparently, razing the countryside. Fenris was not to speak if he could help it, but if addressed had to respond only in Common to hide their Tevinter origins. Once inside the city walls, they were to travel towards the palace and meet with the infiltrators that Quintus had sent to be established within the palace some weeks previous.

"Danarius has promised us that you can carry out the actual assassination on your own." Quintus raised an eyebrow, "We are simply delivering you, and hopefully only ensuring you make it back to the base in one piece once the task is complete. I have orders to have you make a _statement_ with this. Can you do that Fenris? Give a display that would put fear into all of Ferelden?"

Fenris' ears pinned at the pressure placed on him and his Master, but the red within swirled and swelled, barring its teeth and pushing against his brands, willing to manifest _now_ and prove how much of a statement he could make. 

Fenris divided the difference between the two emotions and said "Shall I demonstrate?"

Quintus and the man grinned, their eyes flashing. 

"I do so enjoy your _performances_." Quintus smirked before extending a hand out towards the nearby cattle.

Ten minutes later the herd had been culled, what cows had been able to flee vanished over a hill while others laid in searing pieces, or else caught within red crystal spikes that spread across the ground like roots and pulsed as they choked the life from the unlucky animals. The lyrium receded back into Fenris' brands reluctantly, red ridges slipping back under his skin.

The men grinned in gleeful approval at the demonstration, "Perfect." one of them had said.

They dressed in rough, threadbare mage robes for the rest of the journey to Denerim, obscuring the men’s Venatori colours and emblem sashes under drab washed out browns and greens. Fenris' robes managed to just mute his glow enough so to not be noticed, hood pulled up over his head to hide not only the bulking collar but also his distinctive white hair. It was hot, Fenris' brands burning under leather and now scratchy wool in the afternoon sun. 

There was a tear in Fenris' robes, a splattering of dark browned blood across their side. Fenris wondered briefly where they had found the robes.  
The disguises felt ridiculous, although Fenris could feel a strange familiar sense of security in their stealth that he could not identify, not with the red chewing away at the prospect of being unleashed again. 

It wasn't long before Denerim appeared on the horizon, impressive compared to everything Fenris had seen since traveling in Ferelden. The city stretched to the sea, walls winding wide around the haphazard arrangement of buildings and stone mansions with their own walls trailing to divide the city further. Quintus pointed out the palace to Fenris, a somewhat impressive structure nestled near the heart of the city, shadowed by hills covered with towers and fort walls. Fenris guessed the palace looked about the size of his Master's own estate, and found himself amused by the primitive and humble ways of these lesser people. 

They made their way through the surrounding farmlands and settlements as the sun began to sink in the sky, and while they attracted a few lingering stares, it seemed that the appearance of three robed travellers heading towards the safety of the city was not uncommon. Fenris kept his head down anyways, pulling himself into a calm, focused state to keep the red in his brands from glowing too brightly under his robes. 

No one questioned them until they reached the city gates proper, long flowing banners from the walls displaying unfamiliar city emblems. A couple city guards blocked the entrance and Fenris could see archers on the wall that paused their patrol to gaze down at them. The red lyrium growled low and hungry as Fenris quickly calculated how he might defeat them all if their identities were found out. It would be difficult with the choking collar around his neck, hindering his movement and blocking his phasing abilities.  
"State your business." A guard said in Common as he jerked his chin towards them.

Quintus seemed unconcerned as he answered, "We are seeking asylum." He spoke without even a trace of a Tevinter accent on his tongue, matching the one of the guard easily. "The templars have spread across the Bannorn lands, we have not found safety in many months-"

The guard waved a hand to cut off Quintus' story, from his expression Fenris could tell he had heard similar stories. "Queen Anora has granted Ferelden mages protection within her city's walls." He said boredly, "We can have a guard escort you to the Chantry for safe housing..."

The disguised Venatori made a sound of disagreement before speaking in perfectly accented Common, "Actually, my cousin works as a cook in Bann Franderel's estate and has promised us he can find housing for us. Possibly honest work for us until the circles re-open."

The conversation was completely unfamiliar to Fenris, he was not knowledgeable of the politics of these lands nor the strange way they treated their southern mages. He had always heard of how mages were imprisoned, their magic sometimes cut from their minds, kept on long leashes by templars and the Chantry, but he never really understood how it was possible. Seeing this mere city guard speak down to what (he supposed) were proper mages was outlandish. Fenris was suddenly glad he was not required to speak.

The guard considered, seemingly reluctant to have these refugees travel on their own. He looked to a fellow guard who shrugged her shoulders with a tired expression, "Chantry is getting full anyways." She said, "We are going to have to lend more guards to control their situation if many more of these mages show up."

The first guard nodded thoughtfully before moving to allow them access into the city, "Don't cause any trouble."

-

The city was a hovel. A massive network of shacks and dog pens and slums between the few maintained buildings housing successful businesses and guilds. Fenris expected something more grand for the capital of Ferelden, but this mangey city was more run down and ugly than anything he had seen back in Tevinter. 

Quintus led them at a brisk pace down back alleys, twisting through slums and under-used and dimly lit roads deeper and deeper into the city. He had a familiarity with the place that made Fenris curious as to his position and role within the Venatori, and outside of it. But the question was lost as they met the handsome and well-kept walls that separated the palace from the rest of the city. Quintus and the other man paused to pull the ratty robes off and shove them back into their packs, leaving Fenris covered up as they jogged silently to a gate inset into the wall.

The gate was functional and practical, clearly used and intended for shipments of supplies to be directed to the kitchens and slaves quarters. (Did they keep slaves in Ferelden? Fenris was unsure.) Two figures mingled at the half-dropped portcullis, so comfortable where they leaned against the wall and chatted that Fenris felt a jolt in his stomach, expecting them to be palace workers. Quintus was unperturbed, and strode straight towards them and placed a casual hand on the iron grate that hung just over their heads.  
"Evening." He whispered in Tevene, a mischievous smile in the dark. 

The two workers gave restrained but friendly smiles back to Quintus and silently gestured them to follow. A woman led, adjusting something on her stained apron as she walked quickly between the palace wall and the walls of the palace proper, the man trailing behind to protect them from being followed. The path the woman took was well-worn, the couple yards between the stone walls taken up by stacked firewood, barrels and small herb gardens. Slave spaces or, Fenris guessed by the collarless human who was guiding them, servants? 

The light faded, the soft illumination from the tall windows barely reaching the alley they stopped in. The wall of the palace met the wall here, piles of leaves and branches laid rotting in the corners of the space, nothing to be found here but a single door that appeared unused in recent weeks if not months. They were close to their target now, in the heart of enemy territory. Fenris' red glowed under his robes, pacing within him like a captured beast, awaiting release into battle. The woman turned then, producing a ring of keys and a rolled up parchment from some hidden pocket in her skirts. 

"Keys," She spoke in Tevene as she dropped them into Quintus' hand. Fenris turned as the second 'worker' caught up, carrying a handful of fresh herbs in his hand, a cover for his venturing outside Fenris assumed. 

"And a map of the palace." The woman said as Quintus unrolled the parchment, glancing boredly over the blueprint. "Short of drawing it myself this was the best one I could get my hands on." She further explained as her eyes raked quickly over Fenris. "Ever since the Blight they have been keeping those sorts of things close to their chests."

Her speech was simple somehow, lacking any of the natural polish Fenris had heard in Magisters and men and women from notable houses. It reminded Fenris of how the slaves spoke to one another when they thought they were alone. Perhaps these _were_ slaves after all. Even if they did not wear collars or brands, human slaves weren't as common as elvhen ones but certainly existed. 

"This will do." Quintus said finally before turning to the other worker, "Your last report said there was a gathering today in the great hall?"

The man nodded, fidgeting with the herbs in his hands, his eyes naturally downcast when Quintus looked to him. "Something about the mage-templar war and the Inquisition." He answered, his Tevene sounding rusty. "Lots of nobility, they brought in extra guards and they have had us working overtime in the kitchens so I couldn’t get any more information today, I apologize."

"You've both done well." Quintus remarked without looking up, tapping a finger on the parchment. "This is where they are meeting?"

The woman nodded, before saying, "We owe our freedom to the Venatori, should you need anything else tonight, say it and it is done."  
Ah. Ex-slaves then.

The corners of Quintus' lips tensed, repressing a smirk, something cruel dancing in his eyes as he answered, "Not tonight. You will be contacted when the Elder One finds a fitting role for you to play. Stay in the palace for now."

With a wave of a dismissive hand the two ex-slaves looked to each other and then vanished through the nearby door. Quintus rolled his eyes openly to his companion and Fenris as they left before handing the parchment to Fenris. The layout of the palace was printed in the most rudimentary and plain lines, smudged print littering the diagram. It took a moment for Fenris to situate their position on the map and what he guessed was the main hall. He wasn't used to reading maps of any kind, had only seen them in passing, but somehow the skill had wandered up to Fenris naturally as if he had been used them all his life. 

"This," Quintus explained, as if Fenris might be dull in the head. "Is where Anora will be. And we are-"

"Here." Fenris tapped to their position, the red snapping its teeth in warning.

Quintus made a breath of a laugh, "Exactly. Do you know what Queen Anora looks like?"

The second man produced a card of paper and passed it to Quintus before he grabbed at the front of Fenris' robes and began to take it off of him. Fenris jerked at the sudden movement, a small grow rumbling his throat as Quintus took the map from his hands, facilitating the removal of Fenris' disguise.

The man balled up the robes and shoved them into his bag as Quintus held the small card in front of Fenris, a delicate woodcut portrait printed on its surface of a woman sitting upon a throne. Her hair was tied back in intricate braids behind her ears, a simple circlet above stern black eyes. Fenris could tell it was some sort of reprinting of what was probably a skillfully done painting, the details were lost but a likeness could be gathered from the image.

"You got it?" Quintus' tone was hard, all business. 

Fenris nodded and Quintus reached into a deep pocket and produced a key. It was made of bronze, long and complicated with a silky silvery tassel fixed to its end. Fenris froze when he saw it, recognizing it immediately as the key that opened the lock that dangled from his throat. The tassel was a decorative nicety that Master Danarius had twisted in his fingers after fastening the lock in place. It was supposed to be the only key that would open his collar. The only one made to fit the lock. And Quintus had it in his hand.

Instantly the red flared within, fire scorching his insides as it burned on the tinder of Fenris' fear. The discussions and actions of the previous night, now feeling like a lifetime ago, were blurry in Fenris' head. He remembered Quintus taking a seat next to his Master while Fenris had been forced to the floor by Gladiator hands. Remembered Quintus leaning in to speak quietly, the words lost over the delighted cries of the Venatori that gathered around. Had his Master _sold_ him? Had he given him over to Quintus? Fenris thought he was being lent for the mission and that was all, but Quintus had the _key_ and only Danarius was supposed to have that. Had Fenris disappointed and shamed his Master so much that he would be sent away with a _new_ master? 

Fenris snarled when Quintus stepped forward, his hands shaking fists as his chin rose in a feeble attempt to pull his collar out of reach. He wouldn't accept another master, no matter how unbecoming and wild it made him. He would slaughter any that would so much as _try_ to remove him from his Master's possession. He would run back to Master Danarius, throw himself to his knees and beg to be reunited if that was what it would take. But he would not be handed off like this. He couldn't be. His Master would _never_ , not after everything, Fenris was _prized_.

"Fenris." Quintus' word was a warning.

Fenris bared his teeth, sharp canines desiring red to be splayed against them.

"I have this," Quintus held up the key, expression stone without a hint of fear at Fenris' display. "Because your _Master_ lent it to me. You need your collar removed to be able to phase through the walls, is that correct?"

Fenris swallowed, the red receding. That... made sense. He nodded stiffly, although the red thing within crackled, wrapping around his chest and whispering doubts into his heart.  
"Then..." Quintus inclined his head, a beckoning hand gesture showing an impatience that Fenris was intimately familiar with as a Tevinter slave.

Fenris stepped up obediently, the heat of his brands beating off of him as he presented the lock of his collar. Quintus met his gaze as he slid the key in and turned it. Fenris' ears pinning at the authority in his gaze as the red inside of him swelled greedily at the deactivation of the runes marked into the collar. The other man had stepped forward to undo the buckles on the straps under Fenris' arms as Quintus undid the intersecting parts of the wide collar that spoke to practice. Fenris blinked as it was peeled from his skin, the cold night air clinging to the sweat and sore skin that was suddenly exposed.

His eyes slid shut, the red inside of him howling and baying like a wild wolf as it surged through him unchecked again. Not that the collar muzzled its voice, or its biting, razing teeth, but it seemed to know that Fenris was back to his full capability again. Fenris huffed short breaths through his nose, only just holding back the murderous red inside of him that was _ready_ to spill blood within the palace and find glory for his Master. He felt hands adjust his black leathers where the material curved over his shoulders, focused on the cold air on his bare arms and the deep “V” the garment revealed of his branded and glowing chest.

When he opened his eyes he had reached a simmering, hungry focus. Quintus handed the complicated collar to his companion, looking Fenris up and down before untying a Venatori sash from his waist. He stepped forward and draped it loosely over Fenris' burning chest, enough to display the emblem woven into its fibres but not to impede Fenris.

"You look the part." Quintus hummed, pleased. He reached out, in a gesture that felt absurd in the moment and ruffled Fenris' hair. "Off you go then, we'll be waiting on the other side."

The Red took Fenris, tearing him from reality and into the dark place beside the Veil.

-

The palace became a labyrinth of black corridors illuminated only by Fenris' blood-red glow. The two Venatori that had brought him here were mere shadows. Fenris could hear their heartbeats like drums beating in his head. The red thing within him coiled protectively around his chest, and Fenris remembered his fears he had held back home in Tevinter when his Master first brought the chests of red lyrium into that basement. The red lyrium _wanted_ him. Wanted to consume him. Wanted more than his Master and everyone demanded and took from him. 

It craved his very being. 

Falling back into this fade space made its appetite stronger, louder inside of Fenris' head. _You could be so much stronger_. It twisted around his ribcage like a snake, constricting and hissing along him. _You could bring your Master such glory_.

Glory. Success. Approval.

Fenris needed to kill Queen Anora.

Fenris shut out the sounds, turning his red-glinted eyes to the blackness around him and ran. His feet never hit the ground, the walls towering around him faded as he phased past them, the outlines and surfaces of the palace mere suggestions of where he could or could not go. Fenris followed the path he had plotted on the map, following walls and structure along the path. 

Figures passed through him like ghosts, although Fenris knew they were real, and had not seen or sensed him. He was the ghost within the palace walls. He was the red shadow that would unleash and feast tonight. He would find the victory where it waited for him to tear it from.

The main hall stretched before him, dim stars in the dark showing him a night sky of fragile souls. Men and women gathering for a slaughter. Their voices echoed and warped around Fenris, slow as he moved faster than they could reach him. Words melted against him, falling to his feet as he swam against the blackness to the shining light in the center of the hall.

" _Gentle ladies and lords…_ "

When Fenris sought to see the images filled where there had been none. A figure, coated in coal black, formed around the small light. Her mouth moving as the words sped up, her eyes black, eyelashes ashy as she turned to the hall of lights. 

" _...Once again we find our lands in the shadow of evil..._ "

Something small and light within Fenris made him pause. It was buried deep inside of him, the red loosening its grip on his chest to gaze curiously upon it, claws tensing as it smiled. The light struggled, weak, and in a voice he could almost recognise it told Fenris to _run_. Untethered and unburdened, there was no reason why Fenris couldn't leave. Why he couldn't run and run and get _away_ until he was untouched and safe and-

The red lashed out, burning hot within his skull. It ran its searing claws down the sides of his mind, hissing in warning. It touched the memories that Fenris fought to hide, fought to forget. Qunari and fire and ash falling from the sky. Blood across a man's face as he drew back a red-tailed arrow in his bow. Dark twisting caves where the red laughed hollowly from the shadows. Grasping. The thoughts burned like hot coals. Blistering and blood. Torture and death and _running_ for so long until he could not run anymore. It burned around a metal spike in his head. Unmoving. Fenris wanted to hold his head but could not find it here in this fade.

" _...We must choose to side with the Inquisition..._ "

Fenris had to regain honour. He had to save his Master from the men who doubted him. He had to find victory here for the Venatori.

Fenris returned to reality with his arm pierced through the chest of the Queen of Ferelden. 

The air and the noise and his body all returned at once, bathed in the furious red light that _sang_ as it grew. Anora's eyes met his as the crystal formed and cracked and pushed its way through her flesh. They flashed briefly, blood falling from her lips before her gaze darkened. There were shouts all around Fenris but he could not make them out over the roaring lava between his ears, the red lyrium's song loud as it ripped from the corpse's back into a row of reaching, victorious spikes. It pulsed bright as it absorbed the life from her, broke away from Fenris' brands to lock themselves to the floor and ceiling and _sing_.

Fenris stumbled back, his arm slid from Anora's body, slick and hidden under a pike of red crystal that had erupted from his brands. It hit the floor as he retreated, too long, Fenris' fingers aching where they were encapsulated within the red stone. His breath was ragged and broken, sweat rolling down the back of his neck as the screams fully formed in his ears.

He turned, eyes darting as the Ferelden nobles scattered and the guards pressed in. Swords were unsheathed and Fenris was surrounded and alone. _Alone_.  
The red growled through him, snarling as it used Fenris' markings on its own. It threw out his arms and red shards tore from him, ripping through his brands and catching the warriors as they approached. They cried out as the crystals caught their faces, their necks and thighs and lit up as they pulled from their blood and fear. Tumbling to the ground in pain, littering the large hall as others fled in terror.

Fenris shook as they fell. Trembling from the effort. The red lyrium wanted him to return to the blackness he had travelled through to come here, but Fenris was scared. He had drained so much energy to hold his phased state that he wavered on his feet, he couldn't possibly make it through the palace again without succumbing to the leaching and prying claws of the red within him. He would never make it.

More guards, this time with shields, others with bows. Fenris' heart thumped heavily in his chest as the red boiled and hissed. The Venatori had sent him here for _this_ didn't they? They expected him to die here with their emblem across his corpse. Ridding themselves of him as he filled his one use. He would die here. It had been _planned_.

The men and women hesitated, their eyes darting to the twisted red column that whispered and sung in the hall. The blood splattered across Fenris. Fenris swallowed breaths down, begging himself for peace, for focus, for the energy that he might escape this and return to his Master.

The captain of the guard's stare flickered to something high above Fenris. A tell. Fenris jolted aside as a single arrow sunk into the wooden floor next to him. It would have pierced his thigh had he not moved. Fenris growled, about to turn when he looked to the arrow again.

It had a red tail.

Dread filled Fenris as he whipped his gaze to the back of the hall, but there was no one to be seen in the stands or the rafters. An image of a man with red painted across his face filled Fenris' mind, his own red burning at its edges as it howled in glee and fed upon the fear. _You are being hunted_ , it whispered. 

Without a single hesitation Fenris slipped into the fade.

He collapsed outside of Denerim minutes later, shaking and vomiting as he crawled along the ground. His mind racing. No thought or memory remained long enough for Fenris to catch. Just fear and dread and shame rolling through his body as it screamed with the effort his escape had taken. The red barely even glowed, dim and spent within his skin. But still the beast of it prowling through him.

 _He was there_.

Somehow the man from the dreams, those memories that laid buried, somehow he had found Fenris here. He must have travelled from across the sea too. Must have been tracking Fenris' shadow, waiting to catch him alone, to subdue him and take him away back to Seheron. To bring him back to the torture and reeducation that he had survived already.

Fenris looked around him, found that he was close to where Quintus had instructed him to meet them. Hidden by the shadow of an old abandoned and crumbling barn, in the tall cool grass and soft dirt. But it was too soon for them to be here. It had all happened so fast. Fenris laid his face on the ground, shaking as tears pooled in his eyes. 

He wept alone in the dark. The red curling in his stomach to feed on the uncertainty and fear that drowned him. The lyrium's song lulled in the back of his mind, calming and soothing as Fenris pulled his legs close to him. Soon the Venatori would come to collect him, and they would return him to his Master. Fenris had been successful. He had gained the victory and glory he had promised to bring his Master. His favour would return and Fenris would be allowed to return to his side.

Fenris should have felt pride at his Master's creation within him. 

But instead he found that under the dread and fear there was nothing but a dark hollowness.

 

.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional warnings for this chapter. Thanks as always for the reads, comments, kudos and bookmarks. You guys rock <3

News of the assassination spread like a wildfire. It raged, fuelled on the tinder of gossip and fear, burning people's hope and leaving ashes of despair and destruction everywhere it spread. 

Hawke had been there that night. He followed a tip from Varric and the Inquisition that Venatori agents were reported to have infiltrated the palace. Hawke had used his Champion title for the first time in years to secure himself a place in that room near the most likely of targets. Queen Anora had refused to cancel the meeting that night despite the risk. It was too important to put off, and she would not live in her own home in fear. Hawke hadn't promised to keep her safe, he knew better than to do that. But even so, the looks upon the royal guard's faces when Fenris vanished were something Hawke would not forget. Another failed mission for him to carry.

He had known it was a lost cause as soon as Fenris arrived. He had shredded through the air, ripping from some unseen place, the red that lived in his brands becoming the brightest thing in the hall. It had happened too fast for anyone to have responded. Fenris was faster, deadlier than he had been back in Kirkwall all those years ago. The red lyrium growing from his body into a horror that Hawke could not rationalize being a part of Fenris. It possessed Fenris, used him. Fenris had _nothing_ to do with it. Danarius had carved a monster into Fenris' markings and hidden the man he was under the layers of madness and violence the red lyrium reaped.

Hawke left Denerim to travel to Skyhold that night, and yet he could not out-ride the spreading fear and tales of the assassination. Every outpost, every tavern and trading post Hawke visited greeted him with the question " _Did you hear? The Queen of Ferelden was killed._ "

And while the rumour mongers did not know Fenris' name, they knew exactly what the assassin had looked like. " _Slipped through the air like a ghost, a Tevinter elf with white hair, glowed red like a demon._ "

The countryside teemed with holes that sputtered in the air, demons prowling in broad daylight while templars hunted terrified mages. And yet, all Hawke heard on his travel to Skyhold was the mysterious elvhen assassin. The most wanted man in Ferelden.

Two days of hard riding and Hawke's horse was exhausted and nearly lame as she made the last leg of the journey through the mountains. The road wound along snowy cliffs as freezing winds pulled Hawke's hood from his head, pushing his horse to pass the occasional group of travellers that braved the roads leading to the heart of the Inquisition. He didn't know what he would find when he arrived at the strange fortress that peered down over the frozen valleys and peaks, but he was ready to beg the Inquisitor for Fenris' safety, if that’s what it took. He would do anything at this point to save Fenris, whether it be from Danarius or all of Ferelden.

The wintry storm continued to whistle through the mountains as Hawke approached Skyhold, squinting through the snow to see the ancient towers and walls. Strong walls gave way to crumbled stone, creaking scaffolding surrounding the towers. Around the walls proper and all along the last half-mile of road was a mess of tents and temporary structures. Soldiers, traders, refugees and work-seekers huddled around fires or ran through foot-deep snow to their tents. Down in a sloping valley Hawke could see a herd of war horses taking shelter against a steep cliff-drop, snow building on their backs and necks. Messengers and couriers and captains rushed about the road and the camps, barking orders to reinforce the tent poles; shouting directions and commands across the camp that Hawke couldn’t hear over the wind. Signs posted on the wooden structures half obscured by snowflakes listed needed workers for the Inquisition, who to report to depending on skill-set or experience. 

Hawke rode past them all, to the gates that stood beyond protected by the steep stone that fell away into a crevasse far below. Soldiers stood fast in the wind, snow gathering between the joints and ledges of their uniforms. They held up a hand for him to stop his horse and speak. Hawke noticed that both the towering walls and the soldiers were adorned with both the symbol of the Inquisition and a leafy green heraldry. 

Hawke had to shout to be heard above the winds, dismounting and explaining who he was here to meet. The guards raised their eyebrows at the mention of Varric's name and Hawke realised, after a moment's fear that they wouldn’t know who he was talking about, or that they were simply surprised that Varric _had_ a visitor of any type. Right when Hawke thought he would need to pull out one of his letters from Varric that had the Inquisitions seal upon it they took the reigns of his horse and let him in.

Inside the walls the wind was subdued, the snow falling softly upon the yards that sported more tents and temporary wooden structures. The castle was built upwards in a sort of spiral, yards leveling in small plateaus connected by steep old stone stairs and smooth walls. The scaffolding for repair and improvements exaggerated the twisting, skyward sense of the place. Within the walls was almost as full and busy as outside, more soldiers rushed to and fro, stable hands locking down the wide doors of a handsome inner stable, healers and mages jogged along the walls to avoid the piling snow as they ducked into side doors.

Hawke climbed the stairs, eyes up at Skyhold proper, towering so high he had to crane his neck to try to see the top. Its scale was impressive up close, bolstered by the population and crowded in training, storage, and housing that filled the yards. The Inquisition had spread across the land so quickly, it was hard to remember that it had only been founded some months ago. It had already formed an army and following that outnumbered any standing faction Hawke could think of in these troubling times. 

It was intimidating. 

Varric had only written about the Inquisition and its Inquisitor in passing detail (or at least Hawke hadn't read the letters that thoroughly) and Hawke found that now he was here he was nervous of what he would find inside the keep. 

The doors to the entrance hall were heavy as Hawke pulled them against the wind before slipping inside. The door closed with a slam, a gush of wind whipping snowflakes around Hawke as everyone in the hall turned to look at him. He froze, thankful he had not worn his characteristic red war paint and was not recognizable at a glance as the various nobles, chantry sisters, diplomats and others stared at him. However the moment passed without further comment as they all turned back to what they were doing. 

Hawke looked about the large hall, feeling out of place and small among the bustling and noise within it. Orlesian nobles rattled away to each other behind glittering masks before stealing the attention of one of the tired messengers, who informed them that the storm wasn't ending and yes, the way to their rooms would be cleared of snow soon. To Hawke's left a couple of dwarves and human workers were bent over a collection of blueprints and plans, grumbling over the delays reconstruction might have if the snow continued. Chantry sisters were gathered nearby, speaking softly to a couple of young mages. An assistant of some sort carrying a stack of paper as big as she was stood outside a wooden door telling the diplomats who had crowded around it that their meetings would be rescheduled. 

Hawke had thought Denerim Palace was busy when he had arrived there, but that was nothing compared to the slightly restrained chaos the Inquisition seemed to operate in.

"Hawke!"

Varric's voice was clear across the hall, sending shivers over Hawke at the familiar and welcome sound. Varric appeared from between two circles of strangers, holding his arms out as a grin spread on his face. 

Hawke almost ran, letting himself be lost in the moment. It had been almost _four years_ since he had seen his best friend. Varric's arms around him was at once so familiar and somehow new; for a second it felt as if the last couple years had never happened, Fenris had never been taken, the Chantry had not been attacked, and they were both just a little drunker than usual at the Hanged Man.

"Hawke-" Varric was laughing as he shoved against Hawke's shoulder, "I missed you too, but maybe you could put me down before the nobles see. You know how I feel about you picking me up."

Hawke lowered himself until Varric's feet touched the ground, then slowly lowered until he was bent with his head buried against Varric's shoulder. He didn't want to let go. When was the last time he was embraced by someone? When had he last touched someone for more than a passing gesture? Tears began to prickle in his eyes and he felt Varric go nervously still under him and place a broad hand flat on his back.

"Hawke..." Varric said his name quietly, softly, with a sort of understanding that Hawke that gone years without hearing. "You can't fall apart on me here. I have a Seeker that will strangle me if she finds you here."

Varric led Hawke towards an unassuming door on the side of the hall, the one that Hawke had seen the diplomats congregate around moments earlier. A woman stood at the door, squinting over a dossier as she blocked the entrance. She glanced up to Varric, the tense lines in her face relaxing, "They are in the war room, Ser Tethras."

"They are expecting us." Varric explained, and Hawke pressed his hand to his face to try and pull himself together. He didn’t expect to be seeing the Inquisitor so soon. "Not for a while, but I wanted to show my guest some hospitality and- " Varric gestured to the crowds huddling around the hall, "-it’s a bit of a shit show out here."

The woman smirked and opened the door for them, warning Varric not to use Lady's Montilyet's good liquor. 

Past the door, a large office had been arranged into the large space surrounding a warm and welcoming fire, the noise muffled by the door. Varric stepped down the stone stair that separated it from the raised stone hall that led beyond and sat himself in one of the cushioned chairs arranged in front of the fire. Hawke followed, casting a small glance at the plush furnishings and rich spirits, decorations and imported fruit. The other end of the room had a large and practical desk, at odds with the niceties, covered in ledgers, piles of letters and documents stacked cleanly. 

Hawke sat opposite Varric, who was already leaning forward with fingers laced together and a prying, worried gaze. 

"I'm sorry." He said. The words layered, the thickness of its meaning evident in his hushed tone. "I don't mean to rush you into reporting what you saw right away like this but, I mean, neither of us expected these circumstances."

Hawke didn't say anything, his head buzzing so loud he felt he was still outside in the crowded hall. 

"Hawke I uh," Varric sighed and pressed a thumb over his forehead, obscuring his face for a second. "This is _bad_."

"I know."

" _Really_ bad."

"I was there. I know." 

Varric looked back up at Hawke, a weight and wariness in his eyes that Hawke had only seen in his most vulnerable of moments. The same look he had in his eye when Bartrand had been found driven to insanity by the red lyrium idol they had found. The look said more than Varric could. _Maybe we could have done more_ it said, _But what's done is done._

Hawke didn’t want to accept that, "But-" Hawke spoke up, sitting up in his chair, "It's not _him_ , Varric! That monster changed him! He was forced to kill Anora and get the red lyrium, this isn't _him_. He acted in that camp as if- as if he-"

"-Was a 'slave', Hawke?" Varric raised an uneasy eyebrow, "Because that's what he's been for _four years_. Even if there was a way to get the red lyrium out of him, I don't think he will be the same person he was before."

An anger rose in Hawke out of the ashes of his fear, "I won't give up on him Varric."

"I know." Varric smiled sadly.

"I won't let these people, this-" Hawke rolled a hand in the air, too angry to think, "-Inquisition hunt him down like some animal!"

Varric sighed, "No one _wants_ that, Hawke. I _am_ on your side remember? You know how much safe correspondence in and out of Tevinter costs? I've spent a small fortune keeping track of the elf and of _you_. Why do you think I'm throwing you in front of Keeper right away?"

"'Keeper'?" Hawke asked just as the second door to the office opened, a young scribe of some sort peeking in to tell them they were summoned to the War Room.

-

The War Room was through the door and down a long hallway with a blown out and crumbling wall. The wind rushed in, snow collected on the stone pathway with multiple footprints pressed into it at different layers. Large and imposing iron doors marked the end of the hall. Hawke and Varric followed the young man in, cracking the door only slightly open to not let the cold in.

Hawke's breath caught in his chest as he entered. The room was impressive, encapsulated within beautiful glass windows that rattled against the wind. The table itself seemed small in the center, but Hawke could tell it's scale matched that of the Inquisition itself. A couple men and women gathered around in, scribes and messengers jotting down notes and rushing refilled ink wells and other supplies to the table. 

Hawke had heard many rumors about the Inquisitor, the 'Herald of Andraste', since the breach had first ripped across the sky. The most common said that he was a large and formidable man, a warrior or a mage, depending on who told the story. A few suggested that he was possessed by a demon, using Andraste’s name blasphemously as he manipulated the veil. Others claimed he was a templar, or that he was a Tevinter spy. Hawke did not know what to expect, and found he was nervous to meet someone so important, someone who had gathered this much power in so little time.

The ring around the table broke when Hawke and Varric were spotted. Hawke immediately recognized Cullen, somehow looking both better and worse than he had back in Kirkwall. With him were two women, one who watched him with a keen inspecting eye even as she finished whispering something to another hooded figure who rushed out the door when she finished and straightened. The other smiled brightly, her face lit by a single dwindling candle affixed to her writing board.

"Ah, the Champion of Kirkwall," Cullen smiled at Hawke, bowing his head slightly as Hawke and Varric joined the circle. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence, I see."

"I don't suppose Cassandra has heard this news yet, otherwise I would expect Varric to be a few inches shorter." The hooded woman smirked at Varric, her Orlesian accent softening each word.

"The Seeker hasn't caught me yet." Varric chuckled, walking straight up to the table and smoothing his hands against the large map that laid upon it. He inclined his head towards a figure sitting at the table, bent over squinting at a sheaf of paper in the dim candle light. Hawke had not even noticed him. "Keeper? I'd like you to meet my friend Hawke."

The man looked up, all wide eyes, long elvhen ears and vallaslin and suddenly Hawke understood all of the rumors he had heard about the Inquisitor. He had been an elf the entire time. A _dalish_ elf. No wonder the stories he had heard erased that about him, painting him as either a strong _/human_ hero or a twisted evil enemy. 

The Inquisitor smiled politely, rising from his chair to greet Hawke. He was short and slight, soft robes with embroidered leaves draping off of him as he stepped up to Hawke and bowed his closely-shorn head. 

"A pleasure to meet you, I'm Inquisitor Lavellan. Sabrae, actually, only Varric calls me 'Keeper' don't worry."

Hawke inclined his head, suddenly unsure of the decorum in this situation, "I've uh, heard a lot about you. Mostly untrue I think now."

Sabrae smiled stiffly, "I suspect so. I have heard _so_ much about you Hawke, Varric likes to talk, as you probably know. And I uh, well, he lent me his book so I'm afraid I might be at a bit of a social advantage."

Hawke shook his head, the small elf spoke well but became awkward so quickly. As if he was accustomed to leading and diplomacy but unpractised at speaking with people. Oh, 'Keeper'. The picture started to become clearer. "It's fine, Varric mostly writes rubbish anyways."

Varric elbowed Hawke in the rib as Sabrae visibly relaxed before a gentle, mournful smile crossed his face, "I am terribly sorry we are not meeting under happier circumstances, Ser Hawke. But I do appreciate your coming here to report on Denerim in person so quickly. After we are done here I will make sure you are shown every hospitality."

And just like that Inquisitor Sabrae began the meeting. He introduced his advisors, Josephine the Inquisition's ambassador and Leliana the spymaster, although her name felt familiar to Hawke from somewhere else. Sabrae also introduced commander Cullen, much to the awkwardness of both him and Hawke. 

A scribe settled close to the table, his writing board and pen ready and staring up in Hawke's direction expectantly. Sabrae inclined his head, ready for Hawke's report of the assassination of the Queen of Ferelden. Hawke glanced down to Varric, who had crossed his arms and looked back at Hawke with a sullen restraint that Hawke was not used to him having.

Hawke wringed his gloved hands before explaining everything.

He started years ago at the Hanged Man, at the first mention of Fenris' name Sabrae's eyes darted to Varric and back. Hawke wondered how much of this he had already heard. Hawke explained how Fenris had been taken and they had been unable to follow him. The scribe scribbled Hawke's dictation quickly, causing Hawke to pause awkwardly a few times, Josephine ensured him it was only a record of the meeting for their own use. Hawke did not find that comforting.

With some help from Varric, Hawke recounted the last four years. He skimped on the embarrassing and bleak parts of his own journey as much as he could. He focused on what he knew, that Fenris was enslaved in Tevinter by his old bastard of a 'master' through the past years. Varric picked up to explain what his Tevinter contacts had told him. Hawke stared down to study the feet of the War Table as Varric recounted letters about Fenris appearing loyal and 'docile' at Danarius' side. 

"There were some, uh, distasteful rumors, as well." Varric said at one point as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. It wasn't until then that Hawke realized that Varric probably had _not_ told him every piece of information he had gathered on Fenris. 

Leliana and Cullen interrupted to ask a few questions when Hawke mentioned his time with the wardens. He was confused by how mundane the questions were but troubled by the way the two advisors looked at each other when he answered.

Sabrae never pulled his eye contact as Hawke recounted finding Fenris at the Venatori camp. At first he was unnerved, but there was a warmth and compassion there and soon he found himself comforted by the gaze. He gave details on the number of mages and slaves, what they carried, the route they took. He explained the conversations he had overheard and the one that made him leave to contact Varric. 

"How was Fenris?" Sabrae asked, voice quiet. "At the camp, how did he seem? Were you able to interact with him then?"

A familiar lump grew in Hawke's throat and he shook his head. 

Hawke told of his correspondence with Varric after he stopped stalking the camp, this part they were familiar with as they had connected that thread to a larger tapestry that Hawke was not privy to. The spymaster had sent Varric's response by bird, a large croaking crow that had pecked at Hawke's head. They were silent as he retold the story anyways. He explained how he went to Denerim, how he had used his old title to get into the palace and to speak with the guardsmen (the letter with the inquisition seal had also helped) and then he explained, in detail, how Fenris had appeared and speared Anora into a column of pulsing red lyrium.

The room was silent after Hawke finished, save for the final few words the scribe scratched out before putting down his pen. Sabrae still had his eyes locked on Hawke, an intensity growing under the empathy that had coaxed Hawke along. He finally blinked away to look to his advisors, his expression sullen and serious.

"Have there been any sightings?" He asked.

"None." Leliana answered, fanning a few papers across the table. They all appeared to be gibberish, or perhaps were a sort of code or cipher. "My spies did apprehend two infiltrators from the palace, both of Tevinter origin posing as servants. They are being held in the dungeon at Denerim Palace."

"It might be best if we leave them there," Josephine made a pained face, "The people of Ferelden have been shaken by their grave loss. I have received formal requests by several Ferelden nobles to aid in the assassin's capture and bring him to justice-"

" _No._ " Hawke interrupted, rage filling him, his hands turning to fists as they all turned to look. "I did not tell you what I know to help you _hunt him down_."

"Hawke," Cullen frowned as he took a step forward. Hawke straightened, squaring himself off against the commander. "He killed the Queen in cold blood, all the nobles of Ferelden were witness, what _exactly_ were you expecting-"

" _He_ did not do it." Hawke growled, ignoring the tug Varric gave the back of his cloak. "A slave does not choose to spill blood for political gain. He is not the criminal here, the Venatori and his 'master' are our enemies. He is a victim, he is-"

" _Corrupted_ by red lyrium." Cullen countered, rising his hand as if to order Hawke to stand down. "Your feelings for him won't change that, he is not the man you once-"

Cullen was interrupted by Sabrae's hand gripping his sleeve. He froze, staring first at the elf's hand and then slowly to his eyes. Hawke was unable to read Sabrae's expression, but something about it made Cullen soften, the tension easing until he pulled away from them both to step away. He ran a hand over his face as Sabrae watched him with a gentle, somehow wounded gaze. Hawke noticed the two other advisors exchanging looks, Josephine breaking a small smirk before biting her lip to hide it.

Sabrae blinked his steady gaze back to Hawke, "I'm sorry." He said, although Hawke wasn't sure exactly what it was he was apologising for. "And I want to _help_ Fenris, in any way that we can. You have fought for him all these years, I think it's only fair that we help you continue that fight."

The angry knot in Hawke's chest loosened, slipping apart until the fatigue of years caught up with him. 

"Thank you." Hawke whispered, and Sabrae took his shaking hand and squeezed it. The palm of the elf's hand tingled against Hawke, a strange electrical mana just under the surface before Sabrae let go. 

"We will have to be careful, or at least quiet about aiding Ser Hawke." Josephine warned, "Ferelden is unbalanced as it is now, most of the nobility who have petitioned for our aid are clearly looking to gain favour with the court by being the one to bring Anora's killer to justice. Several rewards have been promised for anyone who kills him as well."

"As if Fereldens needed any more incentive on the matter." Cullen muttered as he rejoined the table, Sabrae placing his hand over his for a brief moment. 

"We could mislead them." Leliana said then, "The Inquisition can take the elf into custody and publicly announce we are investigating the matter further."

"They would demand an execution." Cullen grumbled.

"Even if we staged a trial," Josephine continued, shaking her head solemnly. "A judgement in his favour would make us extremely unpopular with the people and nobility of Ferelden."

Sabrae sighed with an exhaustion Hawke could easily recognize, "I'm not exactly popular with _anyone_ right now anyways."

"I don't know, Curly seems to like you enough." Varric smirked.

Both Sabrae and Cullen snapped their eyes to Varric, Cullen turning a faint pink as Varric chuckled and shrugged.

Sabrae waved a hand to dismiss Varric, and while his complexion was too dark to reveal a blush it was clear he was flustered. "Anyways, I would rather do what’s right and try to help Fenris. If it’s at all possible to cure the damage red lyrium does, it could benefit all of us. I've seen what red lyrium exposure can do, it’s in our best interest to see what can be done about it."

"I am not sure I am willing to endanger our forces," Cullen didn't look up from the war table, still riding out the flush in his face. "Fenris was a formidable warrior before the red lyrium. And I'm not sure all of my Ferelden-born men would follow an order _not_ to kill him outright."

"Then leave it to me." Hawke crossed his arms. "You tell me where to find him, and help me bring him here."

"You want him imprisoned then?" Sabrae raised his eyebrows.

Hawke thought of Fenris with the collar, chained to the ground and throwing himself against it. He thought of Fenris ripping through the air and his arm transforming into a red sword, impaling the queen where she stood. He remembered Fenris telling Hawke how small enclosed spaces made him nervous, how he noted every exit to any space he entered. A whip cracked in his mind, sharp, moments after Fenris had nearly spotted him in the forest and turned _feral_.

"Yes." Hawke's voice trembled. His heart ached. "Until we can... He would at least be safe here."

Sabrae's eyes were wide, he looked like a wounded halla lost in the woods. "Are you sure that is what you want?"

"If the dungeon can hold him, it’s the safest bet for all of us." Cullen straightened. 

"I just want to make sure he is safe." Hawke closed his eyes, swaying on his feet, terrified he had made the wrong decision in coming to the Inquisition.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, no new warnings on this chapter, thanks every for reading and commenting/bookmarking and kudos <3 I appreciate all of you.

Hawke's boots crunched in the deep snow from yesterday's blizzard. It was over a foot deep, muffled and soft under his step once he broke the hard surface. The midday sun was bright and steady in the cloudless sky, chilling through the layers of wool and fur lining on his cloak. The cold fresh and crisp on Hawke, freezing out the aches in his muscles and the twisted confused anxieties in his mind. It was silent out here, a welcome change from how loud Skyhold had been, crowded and overrun. But out here there was nothing but the fresh, sleepy whiteness and the wind whistling over it.

"First you cry and throw up on my boots and _then_ you drag me out into the Frostbacks to swim through the snow." Varric grumbled behind him, breaking the tranquil calm in the low peaks. "After last night, I’m surprised you can walk at all."

Hawke huffed a laugh, the hollow sound becoming a steamed breath on the cool wind. "Well clearly I had to drag you along to make sure I don't tumble down a mountain, I don't recover from the drink as easily as I used to."

"You can hardly drink at all anymore." Varric chuckled as he caught up to Hawke, looking across the tundra without any of the awe Hawke had. "You were only on your third tankard when you told me you wanted to kiss that elf warden you met."

"I did _not_." Hawke scolded, offended and now concerned about what _else_ he might have said that he didn't remember last night. All he could remember was his drink being refilled far too quickly. Too much noise, too many claps on his back from strangers who were too eager to meet the Champion of Kirkwall. He did remember throwing up on Varric's boots though. He had already paid Varric back for them.

Hawke pointed down to a small valley, nestled between two steep peaks near them. From here Hawke could see the icy trickle of water from the higher peak, pooling down to a shallow river that melted and parted the snow over stones. "That's where they said the elk herds stop for water." He explained, skirting the whole drunken debacle talk. "If we can hole up somewhere above it they might wander in, and we can bring a couple back for Skyhold."

"Uh-huh." Varric said, dubious. "So we get to sit around in the snow now too! I'm glad we are doing this instead of, oh I don't know, staying inside where it’s warm and dry and I don’t need to drag animal carcasses up mountains."

Hawke laughed again as he headed towards an overcroft that looked down at the cold river. It was close enough to get a clear shot but far enough that they might not ward off the elk with their voices. Hawke prefered to be out here with Varric; just them in the elements, where it was quiet and there wasn't a person stopping to talk to Varric about something every ten minutes. Nowhere in Skyhold felt private, even the alcoves, gardens and the library Hawke had discovered were busy with people. Short of climbing up on one of the roofs, this seemed like the better option to get his wits about him again. 

The quartermaster he had talked to directed him to a few people who had hunted in the mountains, a few men and women who had joined the Inquisition after their wooden cabins and fishing huts had been burned down by templars or infested with demons. They had told him of the better locations where he might find game. Hawke just wanted to feel useful, do something he was good at, standing in the shadow of Skyhold's walls made him feel confined and restless.

As much as he knew it would feel to Fenris. The thought turned his stomach over. Hawke had _agreed_ to having Fenris imprisoned, like a criminal, like a slave. But what else could they do? How else could he even hope to help him? He had seen what red lyrium could do to people, and he had heard even worse tales from the Inquisition: templars whose bodies had malformed into walking abominations of bloated muscle and crystal limbs, veins of the lyrium growing straight through them. Fenris' infection seemed contained, at least, besides the display in the palace. He didn't know or understand very much about Fenris' markings, but it was possible that the red lyrium stayed within them.

At least he could hope.

Varric stood awkwardly at the out cropping as Hawke carved out a space for himself in the snow, staring at him as if to say 'I can't believe you talked me into this'. Hawke smiled and pulled a length of canvas he had brought to secure any game they shot, laying it out in the snow as a thin damp barrier. Varric smirked at how ineffectual it was, but sat himself down next to Hawke.

They passed a flask of warmed cider between them as they watched the trickling stream at the bottom of the cliff. For a moment they were quiet, and Hawke realized he was smiling despite everything. Just being back with Varric was loosening the tight knots he had labored under all these years. 

"So," Varric spoke up after a time, voice soft so to not spook any game that might be near. "How exactly are you planning to _capture_ Fenris?"

Hawke blinked. "I thought you would help me. That we could subdue him somehow and bring him here and lock him up."

Varric let out a low whistle, "Forgive me for saying thing but, that sounds like a suicide mission."

Varric turned to look at Hawke, but he did not move his gaze from the stream in the valley below. Varric waited for a response but Hawke had none. He knew. These last four years had been a suicide mission. He’d almost had himself killed, enslaved, and nearly drank himself to death at least once. He had never let Varric know about his brushes with defeat, although he was sure it was painted all over his face.

"Hawke I'm-" Varric started, then stopped, grumbling under his breath as he rubbed at his face. "I don't know how to say this, Hawke. Fenris was my friend too, but I think Curly had a point yesterday. He's not going to be the same person he was back in Kirkwall, and judging by your report last night it seems more likely he'll..."

Hawke remained silent. A lump grew thickly in his throat and his mind turned to a foggy haze he had come out to the frosts to rid himself of. He knew what Varric was going to say, and let him say it.

"I can't... lose you Hawke." Varric's voice broke an edge. It wasn't what Hawke expected him to say. "The world is all backwards now, demons falling out of the sky and red lyrium bursting out of the ground, dragons and ancient magisters and I've seen so many-" He closed his eyes. "I can't lose anyone else Hawke. I can't lose you."

They were silent. Hawke knew he should say _something_ but words escaped him. What could he say? He couldn't stop himself from trying to save Fenris, not even for Varric. He struggled under the weight of the guilt of it all. How in his endeavors to rescue the man he loved he was abandoning and alienating the people who cared about him. 

"I'm sorry." Hawke said. "But I can't-"

Varric shook his head, dismissive, "I know Hawke. But at least, let me help and let me arrange a few things to make this easier. Or at least safer."

Hawke looked up, questioning, even as out of the corner of his eye he could see the first elk pacing toward the stream. 

"I agree that Curly's men shouldn't be involved, too risky, also Fenris would kill them easily. But I know a few mages that might-"

"No." Hawke shook his head as he pulled an arrow from his quiver, readying himself for the hunt they were holding off. "You know I’m not... against mages, but if we need to subdue Fenris it shouldn't be with magic. I have some poisons made up that should work, no magic, please."

Varric frowned, "What if Fenris shoves his red-lyrium-fist through you then? Might want a mage then."

Hawke turned away, readying his bow as he took aim at a hefty stag down in the valley. "We will just be careful then."

Hawke's arrow shot through the air.

-

Blood erupted from the gladiator's chest, red lyrium charring the skin Fenris had forced his hand through. The slave gurgled behind the steel visor, stumbling as Fenris held him up from the inside, the blood pouring from him. Fenris snarled, baring his teeth as he tore a tangle of viscera from the creature's chest and threw it upon the ground. Blood streaked the bare chests and steel facades of the other gladiators that surrounded Fenris. They flinched and jumped back, their eyeless metal gazes swinging from Fenris to the gore strewn upon the ground. Steam rose from the viscera as the gladiator collapsed dead.

Fenris shook, staggered as the red thing within him breathed hot and heavy down his spine. His eyes darted to the others in warning. They would be next. The dead slave upon the ground had pushed himself up to Fenris in the crowd of warrior slaves only a moment prior, breathing heavy behind his helmet as his hands reached out for Fenris. Grabbing and greedy, as if Fenris had been nothing more than a meek elvhen house slave who would have bent to the animalistic rough hands.

No _slave_ would touch him without a master's command. He had been dirtied by one of the mindless brutes once already and he did not intend to return from his victory back to his Master having been defiled by one of these lesser slaves.

Fenris' heartbeat was thudding in his head, over the soft humming tune that the red had begun to bring with it when it swirled and expanded in Fenris' mind. He cradled his head in his hand, shaking again as the red clawed and picked at the wounds inside of him. Nothing had changed since the assassination. Quintus had brought him back to the Ferelden manor to find that Danarius had left, part of a forward group that were moving towards Orlais. So they _said_.

 _You were lied to, your Master_ did _sell you and now seeks escape from the shame you bring him_.

The red was insistent. It had fed on the terror Fenris had felt in Denerim when he realized he was being hunted. It had developed a taste for it, prying constantly for more of Fenris' fear. Fenris' body buzzed with it, looking over his shoulder and scanning the fields Quintus and the other Venatori marched Fenris and the gladiators through. They were following the others who had pulled ahead, they were traveling... somewhere. Fenris was not convinced that they _were_ going to where his Master was. No matter how much Quintus rolled his eyes and told him they were. And now he had gutted one of their slaves, he hadn't thought, the red had pushed him. They wouldn’t understand and they would punish him.

The warrior slaves stumbled away from Fenris, unwilling to move from the forest clearing they had been ordered to stay in, but too frightened to be any closer to him. They parted as one of the slave drivers appeared, making a path straight to where Fenris twisted his blood-stained fingers in his hair and the downed gladiator sputtered quietly into death. The man made a breath of a sound, a sharp word that died on his tongue when he saw Fenris watching him between two fingers. The driver had a whip in his hand. He held Fenris' gaze, expression unreadable with the static noise of the red screeching in his ears. The driver shook his head and left.

The gladiator on the ground had the decency to die quietly after that. The red lulled as well, from its high pitch to something smoother under Fenris' surface. But it did not silence itself. The other slaves kept away from Fenris, like sheep corralled with a wolf, they kept to the edges of the clearing, close to each other. No protection for them from Fenris if their powerful slave driver simply shook his head and looked the other way. He had just left. Untempered, Fenris could have killed all the slaves at his leisure, slayed them all for the crime of him being dragged down to their level, and he could just _walk away_. None of these Venatori would stop him. Fenris could _leave_ he could run into the woods as far as his feet could carry him and none would pursue him.

A small, flickering thing deep inside him rose to the thoughts. The red uncoiled itself and snuffed the light out and whispered, _your Master would be displeased and you_ cannot _disappoint him further._

Fenris had done well. He had. He had to stop himself from undoing it any further. And even if he did run, he did not know what direction he would need to sprint to find his Master.

He lowered himself to the ground, limbs trembling, and sat in the dirt with his ears pinned. He was mere feet from the cooling body of the slave he had wasted. He decided to keep his head down and wait.

It was nearly dark by the time Quintus came. He appeared suddenly, unperturbed by the corpse in the center of the ring of slaves and headed straight for Fenris. Fenris stumbled into a shaky stand and was caught as Quintus grabbed at the ring affixed to the front of his wide collar. He yanked Fenris forward, eyes piercing, latching a long chain to the collar as he broke the glare to sigh impatiently.

"If you hadn't done such an extisque job killing that queen, I'd have you killed right here for that." Quintus gestured to the corpse, his expression less deadly and more inconvenienced.

Fenris snarled automatically but stopped himself from pulling back against the chain.

"That's quite enough, Fenris." Quintus tugged the chain once, as one might pull a horse into a walk, before strolling from the knot of helmeted slaves. Fenris had no choice but to follow, his Master's last orders to listen to Quintus the one lifeline he had in the chaos around him. Quintus knew where his Master was, Fenris _had_ to follow. "You do not want to be more trouble than you are worth."

Quintus looked over his shoulder at Fenris, eyes impartial, "And you are getting _very close_ to that point."

Fenris swallowed down the verbal strike and the red fury that twisted in his throat at the comment. Restraining himself as he was led from the slaveholding, past the small camp of Venatori mages and agents, and to a far unassuming tent. Quintus fished a metal spike from the tent, never letting off of Fenris' chain, and drove it into the ground with the chain laced through it. The enchanted spike locked to the ground it was pierced into, Fenris already feeling the gravity on the chain increasing more than it should when Quintus dropped it.

"I wonder," Quintus mused, tilting his head at Fenris. "If it is truly the red lyrium that drives you to such _disobedient_ behaviour or if you were just too spoiled by Danarius. You may have been a prized hound in Tevinter, _pet_ , but the Venatori won't be happy with a dog that snaps its teeth and slaughters its peers."

Fenris bristled, nostrils flaring as he fought down every red-laced instinct to tear at the man. He stepped away, not caring about the decorum between slaves and their keepers, not when he was so close to bringing more shame onto himself and his Master.

Quintus took a step forward, not allowing Fenris to take the space. "You _were_ special once, prized, but things always change don't they? Once Danarius supplies the Venatori with more red lyrium slaves you'll be ordinary, do you even remember what that was like? Since you're too dangerous for anyone's cock you might not live long enough to find out."

Quintus left Fenris tethered near the small tent that night. He rejoined the other men at the campfire as Fenris laid himself upon the floor, trying to force himself into a sleep. He could not stop thinking of what Quintus told him, or of the red tailed arrow he had seen back in Denerim. His enemies were multiple and they were everywhere. They stood alongside his Master and they crept in the forests and fields around him, waiting. One more misstep and Fenris would be dead. Possibly too tainted to keep around for his blood. Nothing but a waste of resources and a failing of his Master's intellectual and magical prowess.

Fenris did not sleep. Shaking and rocking as the red twisted his thoughts around its claws, as Quintus returned to his tent with one of the few elvhen slaves that had been left at the Dog Manor they had brought along. The sounds that escaped the tent joining the endless broken hum of the red in his ears. By dawn he was exhausted, but eager to be on the road again, eager to be reunited with his Master.

Fenris was kept away from the other slaves. His chain attached to the saddle of the horse Quintus had taken from the manor's fields before they finally abandoned the Ferelden mansion. Fenris had to keep his stride quick despite the slack of the chain's length, worried that Quintus would keep riding even if Fenris had fallen and was dragged. Luckily this did not happen as they crossed the hills and fields that became steep mountainous roads. One of the Venatori announced they were close to the other group and Fenris felt a small rush in his chest, elated at the thought of seeing his Master again. They traveled through the night, mage light floating around their feet to keep the slaves and horses from tumbling down the mountain's paths.

They reached the camp when the moon was high in the sky, it was tucked on a plateau that overlooked the valley below bathed in moonlight. The tents were close together and the most powerful gladiators were chained at the front, slowly lowering this weapons and shoulders as they spotted the Venatori colors and heard the Tevene on the wind.

Quintus dismounted, gave Fenris' chain a quick tug as he stepped before the bustle of slaves and horses and unpacking of tents, "Let's find your beloved Master then."

Fenris' ears perked as they walked through the camp, listening for his Master's voice amongst the chattering mages in the tents and at the fire. The elvhen slaves from the manor jumping out of their way to stare at their feet as they passed. The tents glowed from the mage lights within them, flickering lantern flames casting dark shadows that shifted as more Venatori filled into the camp behind Fenris and Quintus. Finally they weaved toward the tent that Fenris recognized at a glance.

"Magister Danarius?" Quintus turned his face towards Fenris as he inclined toward the tent's entrance, a small smile on his face. "I've brought you something."

There was a pause and then a shuffling from inside the tent and Fenris felt his chest tighten in a conflicted anticipation. A footfall behind the tent flap, another pause, and his Master pulled the thick painted canvas back just enough to glare out suspiciously. He caught sight of Quintus first, who grinned in an unfriendly manner, but then saw Fenris and his expression dropped. It was blank, unreadable, and Fenris felt himself shrink slightly under it.

"I've brought your wild elf back." Quintus said cheerily, pushing Fenris' chain to his Master's chest. "I'm sure you heard he did an exceptional job killing the dog queen, but as a proper _slave_ he leaves so much to be desired, my friend. You should see to that. You owe Sulias a new gladiator by the way, of breeding quality, so he says. Fenris here decided he was more useful rotting in the Hinterlands."

Master Danarius said nothing. He dropped the chain from his chest and the sudden weight pulled at Fenris' throat as his Master held the chain softly. "Thank you for returning him to me." His voice was flat, but the look he gave Quintus reminded Fenris of caged drakes he had seen at magister's estates, face still and eyes piercing. "Tell Magister Sulias he will be compensated."

"Ah." Quintus reached into a satchel at his hip and pulled a blood splattered white sash from it, it took a moment before Fenris recognized it as the Venatori symbol he had draped against him when he entered the Denerim castle. It draped softly to the ground as Quintus unfolded it, revealing the brass key to Fenris' collar and handed both to Fenris' Master.

"Well, I have a report to give them." Quintus gestured lazily to the center of the camp. "And I suspect you will hear from them in the morning. So exciting. I can't wait to see the next red-laced creature you come up with."

And with that Quintus left and Fenris let out a small breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in. His Master narrowed his eyes after Quintus had turned away, watching him with a fire in his eyes until the man turned a corner and vanished from view. Danarius' gaze swept to Fenris then, once again holding an expression Fenris couldn't discern. He turned into the tent and Fenris followed obediently, anxious to be alone with his Master at _last_.

As soon as Fenris entered the tent his mind travelled back to Seheron. He remembered the thick wet heat inside of the canvas tents, the sweat that clung to him and the mud he had to wipe from his feet before entering his Master's tent. He remembered thin fabric nets to keep insects away, the mage light flickering so dimly as to keep the camp as hidden as possible in the deep jungle. He remembered the dread of what the next day would bring, the anxiety of anticipating the Qunari trampling their tents if he fell asleep.

Master Danarius' tent was as humble and sparse as it had been all those years ago. A simple cot laden with furs on one side, a pair of heavy chests and a folding desk and simple chair, the desk covered in a spread of papers and journals and ink wells. Master Danarius ran a hand against his head, looking troubled and tense as he put the sash and key on top of one of his chests and turned back to Fenris.

"I hate them." He breathed, his eyes closed. He was not speaking to Fenris, not really, he was speaking for himself and it simply helped that Fenris was there to receive the words without voice or judgment. Even so, Fenris' shoulders relaxed and his ears drooped, relieved that he and his Master had a kinship in this moment. It was better than the disappointment and indifference that Fenris had spent the last week expecting.

Master Danarius unlatched the chain from Fenris' throat, letting it pool on the ground noisily as he gave Fenris a small testing look. One that said _do not make me regret that_. Fenris softened himself, rounding his shoulders and looking down from his Master's eyes, begging his lyrium to follow his lead.

"I do not know how they expected to assassinate a _monarch_ on their own." Danarius continued, turning to his desk to close the journals and put away the papers, as if Fenris might read their contents, as if he /could/. " _My_ slave is successful AND comes out alive and all they care about is how many ‘more’ I can produce. They steal my _work_ and my notes and ship them off to Maker-knows-who back in Tevinter with a boatload of red lyrium to mass produce 'warriors' to send to Seheron. As if it was that easy. As if I did not create a miracle in making you without disfiguring you or-"

Danarius stopped, rage shaking in his shoulders as he grasped the edge of his desk. The words rolled through Fenris like a tide, disorienting and washing him out from the proper meaning of it all. The red inside of him prowled, growling as it waited for Fenris to doubt and fear his place with his Master. But he did not waver, he knew what his Master required of him on the nights that his frustrations and anger burned inside of him. Fenris' eyes flicked to the bed and then to his Master's back. He had not been used in such a way since the red lyrium, not since his skin held the danger of burns. He wondered, hoped even, that his Master would find peace and pleasure in him again.

His Master straightened and turned to him, expression softening suddenly as he stepped close. "My poor pet, you have done so well haven't you?"

Something in Fenris' chest hurt. Squeezing and he suddenly needed something to fill the deep hollowness he had felt in the damp grass outside of Denerim. He wanted to tell his Master how hard it had all been, how the red tore up the insides of his mind, how the red archer from his dreams was out there somewhere and had nearly captured him to drag him back to the Qunari. He said none of his, instead his ears dropped and the red in his skin dimmed to the dying sear of a hearth fire.

The air prickled with magic, frost collected against his Master's hands and Danarius stepped forward to caress Fenris' face. He melted to the touch, the cold of it soothing the endless humming in his head to a nearly silent murmur. A second hand joined, grazing his ear gently before rubbing a thumb on Fenris' neck under his jaw.

"I know it’s hard." Danarius whispered, his gaze raking slowly across the exposed markings. "But once we return home, where we belong, I will relieve you of this."

Fenris blinked, the red within him stilled like a hare in the grass.

Master Danarius smiled gently, "Once this is over Fenris, I'll take this red lyrium out of you. I will not have you ruined by it any longer than we need it to."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, a few more serious warnings for this chapter - there is an 'off-screen' rape, murder violence and a heaping of verbal abuse. Take care while reading!
> 
> Next chapter is going to be a big one, i want to take my time with it to get it right so it may be a bit of a wait but as always I appreciate all your readership, comments, kudos and bookmarks <3

That night Fenris laid down to sleep on the floor of his Master's tent and hoped he would dream of Minrathous. He fought off the hot beating breath of the red lyrium to imagine his Master's estate in his mind's eye, imagining that the burning heat inside of his limbs was the warm sun in Tevinter. He walked himself down every hall and room he with every detail he had memorized. He slipped into sleep while the chill of the Frostbacks became warm sunshine, stepping into a deep heated bath as other slaves rubbed oils into his skin without fear of his brands. He held onto the promise that the red would be taken from him and he could find peace again.

 

But when he finally drifted into sleep, the red beast within had other ideas. It returned to his mind with sharpened claws, vengeful teeth and the glowing blood eyes that found the cracks inside of Fenris and delighted in them. Fenris dreamt of rainstorms, soaking through his armour, his sword too heavy to carry but still swung into masked men, qunari and demons. He dreamt of tunnels, well-lit under the rumbling of a city, mages slicing blood from their own hands as they looked at him with terror in their eyes. In his dreams he did not walk the halls and decadent rooms of his Master's estate but a mansion covered in dust, the roof creaking in the wind as the storm fell through gaping holes in the ceiling. 

 

The red dug deeper. It found dark stone corridors lit only by streams of red lava, found a saarebas encased in flames, found the decorated qunari who squinted down to him and weighed his worth. No matter what it was the red dreams gave him, no matter how vivid they were or how much blood he would lose in them he never woke until he saw _his face_.

 

The man with the red across his face. The man who looked to him with an expression he could not place and did not trust. His heart raced, the red thudded deep within him, and he could not bare to stare back into the man's eyes. A red tailed arrow would fly and Fenris would wake on the cold floor of his Master's tent, breathing harshly and gripping at the threadbare rug beneath him. But it did not matter. Fenris was going to leave this terrible place and have his red lyrium removed and would be safely back behind the walls of his Master's home. He swallowed down the fear, let the red lyrium have it, and he did not fall back asleep.

 

In the morning the camp was a flurry of activity and chaos. Mages and freemen talked and laughed over breakfast or over piles of maps and papers while the elvhen slaves dissembled tents and furniture and the warrior slaves huffed and paced in their chains like untamed horses. The combined Venatori force was large, at least four times the size of the one Fenris had landed with all those weeks ago. He recognized men and slaves from the original camp and from the Dog Manor, but there were more still he did not know on sight. 

 

Fenris followed his Master through the labyrinth of tents and supplies and slave holdings to find that conversation would die in their presence. Men in their Venatori colours would fall silent, eyes piercing as they raked over Fenris and he _knew_ they recognized and knew him. The red would coil like a hissing snake within, ready to lash out, not liking the way these men looked at his Master. Warrior slaves stumbled out of their way, frightened as they should be, the slight elvhen slaves would let their eyes trail over to him as high as they dared. Fenris and his Master were _known_ here. But Fenris knew that it was not respect but jealousy and wrath that danced in their eyes.

 

Master Danarius, carefully under his breath, warned Fenris to restrain himself. "They must not see you as a wild thing." He said, speaking to Fenris without looking at him at the edges of the camp. "Keep your eyes and ears open my wolf, but do not bare your teeth until I tell you."

 

The red inside of Fenris laughed. The sound echoing throughout his body. But he nodded.

 

The Venatori travelled the Frostbacks, the slopes Fenris had climbed only a day earlier was revealed to be a range of towering freezing peaks that stretched as far as he could see. They were to cross into Orlais to join others under the banner at a fortress of sorts. Snow began to fall upon them as the horses and slaves hefted the heavy trunks and packs as they stepped out into the mountains.

 

The lower paths of the mountains lead to snowy valleys and frozen paths. Snowflakes crowding Fenris' eyelashes as he marched behind his Master's horse. The tree line thinned until there was nothing to greet them but the frozen crags of the Frostbacks. The fortress they were to travel to was a day and a half's ride away through the snow. It was too cold to camp for fear of losing the gladiators and warrior slaves to the freezing temperatures. They had to travel through the night.

 

The cold agreed with Fenris. It soothed the veins of red heat in his limbs, hushed their voices to a soft whisper. The freezing winds were as welcome as a cool breeze in Seheron, only slightly chilling the top of Fenris’ ears. The other slaves shivered and shook in the cold, the elves wrapping their freezing feet in rags and the warriors hissing when their armor brushed their bare skin. Fenris felt nothing except relief, the thick snow soft as it crunched underfoot, melting at his touch.

 

The flakes fell silently from the darkened sky, illuminated by the moon as they marched. It was tranquil, somehow. As if all the noise in the world, all the noise within Fenris, had been deafened by it. As if the red was already released from him. The snowflakes melted where they fell on Fenris’ exposed skin, cool water trailing down his overheated limbs as he sighed. The gladiators and other warriors did not fare as well, the snow built up against their helmets, slowly trickling cold water down between their necks and collars only to freeze again. 

 

They had to stop often, the mages stoking large fires upon the rough rocky terrain that they stood around to warm themselves in their layered robes and stolen furs. Only after they were sufficiently warmed would they allow the slaves to creep up to the burning glow. The few healers gathered then, healing the early signs of frostbite in the feet of the elves and muttering to each other when the slave drivers dragged the shivering warriors to them. 

 

Fenris watched from afar as gladiator's helmets were unlocked, revealing startlingly human faces underneath. Their shivering violent as the healers warmed the frozen trails of water and the skin that tore when the icy steel was peeled from them. They knelt near the fires as the faithful might kneel in a Chantry, the red fiery heat something they saw as a savior. 

 

Fenris stayed away from the fire. He was enjoying the cold and the snow, burying his bare feet in the banks at the edge of the momentary camp and humming quietly as it soothed. He could not hear nor feel the red thing inside of him, the slithering and the clawing gone. The voice silent, nothing within the red veins along his limbs save for the soft song. His mind felt as clear as the sky above them, glittering with stars. He savoured the feeling, pushing away the curious and troubled thoughts that surfaced in the silence. Not now. 

 

They picked up the path again, the slaves thawed and healed enough to make it to the fortress without collapsing in the snow. Master Danarius dozed on his horse as it plowed on through the deep snow, wrapped in furs and the blankets from his tent. The other mages were quiet too, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of snow under feet and hooves and the occasional warnings and directions called back from the front of the line. A few times before the dawn lifted Fenris saw slave drivers rushing their horses back along the line to presumably deal with a freezing slave or some similar issue before walking their horse past Fenris into their spot in the line again. One time it was Quintus, reaching out to brush Fenris' hair with his fingers as he passed back to the front. 

 

The path they followed began to slope down by the time dawn had lit the horizon with pink and yellow hues. The company remained quiet for a few hours as Fenris carefully negotiated his bare feet down the rock and ice, his eyes always darting up to watch the sunrise among the surrounding peaks. The dozing riders began to wake up properly as a scout came barrelling to the path announcing loudly that the Inquisition had been seen coming towards the mountain paths they were on. After an initial flurry of excitement the message came that the Inquisition was nearly three days ride behind them, and most likely taking a different path towards Templar camps in the mountains. 

 

Fenris knew nothing of the Inquisition, except that Queen Anora had mentioned it before he had killed her. The red tailed arrow flew through his mind, but the red within did not catch it, did not waken to tear the thought apart and bare its teeth at Fenris. The fear swelled normally, feeling smaller than it ever had before. Curiosity crept and Fenris found that something about the red tailed arrow felt more familiar now than it ever had in his dreams and fears. He knew it had been shot by the man with the red across his face, but he did not feel danger from it as he should have. He shivered for the first time in the cold air, suddenly frightened of how deeply the Qunari might have brainwashed him against his Master that he might feel comfort from the thought of his captor. 

 

The Venatori picked up the pace heading down the mountainside, spurred on by the thought of being caught unprepared by the Inquisition's forces. Horses and slaves slid down ice sheets and soft snow that gave way underfoot, a few injuries were treated quickly with magic to keep horses on their feet and slaves continuing through the snow. The clouds cleared to reveal a white landscape of stone ruins, trees and deep valleys laid out before them. Orlesian hills and forests. Fenris noticed a dim red glow among some of the caves and peaks beneath them, recognized its colour.

 

The path twisted down steep mountain sides until it flattened out on a rocky plateau. A few twists and turns through the crags revealed a towering elvhen ruin. Fenris knew it on sight, familiar with the grand architecture and intricate looping designs not unlike the marking his Master gave him. It was pale, matching the snow upon the mountain it receded into, tangled green vines and young trees growing along the ruined facade despite the cold. Venatori banners were erected outside of its entrance, the biting snake cloaking the ancient elvhen walls.

 

They all gathered in the flats outside of the ruin, mages voicing their awe at the beautiful ruin and their relief at having finally arrived. Men dismounted as elves gathered horses and the packed bags and trunks. Venatori mages and warriors spilled from inside to greet them and everything became loud and busy. 

 

Fenris was glad all he had to do was remain close to his Master, who had dismounted his own horse and headed into the ruin with an expression of reverence. Within the ruins was an organized and fortified camp, not as contained and homey as the Dog Manor had been but sufficient protection from the elements and enemies. A thin layer of snow covered the ground, mostly kept out by the broken roof high above them. Tents were set up around what once had clearly been grand halls, arranged neatly with storage, food and slave holdings retained to the corners. Fenris followed Danarius as he wandered silently, his own gaze trailing up along the tall walls and faded murals. He tried to imagine what it might have looked like when it was new, before time had crumbled it into this shell. He found it impossible, unable to picture what it had looked like unravaged and with, of all things, free elves gracing the halls like robed magisters. Absurd. 

 

His Master sighed contentedly as he looked about, his eyes meeting Fenris' for only a moment to grow cold as he smiled and moved away. Something inside of Fenris ached and he didn't know why.

 

The Venatori from the mountain path crowded into the space, their voices echoing around the empty ruins as the slaves brought in and began to set up their tents and supplies. The warriors were tended to by the healers before being sent to patrol outside or further into the ruins. The elvhen slaves' eyes gazed up the walls, trailing the twisting designs with a reserved awe that they quickly hid when their betters walked past. 

 

Master Danarius had a pair of slaves work at setting up his tent in one of the further rooms. Fenris standing idly as they dragged heavy trunks and set the thick tent poles into the earth. After only a moment, his Master was called to by one of the Venatori mages to join them in the main hall. To Fenris' relief, he was gestured to follow, just how things were supposed to be.

 

The mages and freemen were arranged around a large fire in the first hall, sitting upon scavenged chairs and benches or the crates and barrels of supplies that were scattered around the ruin. They ate from platters and drank wine from wooden goblets, a strange echo of the luxuries of Tevinter all the way out here in the Frostbacks. They were quieter than they had been back at the Dog Manor despite the fact this group was easily double the size. One robed man was dominating the room speaking of plans and rhetoric. Master Danarius came to the circle without much notice, only one man gesturing to a place for him to sit in the ring, and Fenris decided it was probably for the best. His Master was not fond of these men, and they all posed a threat to his life. 

 

Even without the red lyrium awake and growling in his veins Fenris bristled to be near the Venatori. He squared his shoulders as he stood behind his Master, eyes casting challengingly to those that glanced towards them. He would not bare his teeth. But he revelled in standing strong as his Master's body guard once more, even if he wore the Venatori-branded collar at his neck. None could make a move against his Master without having to deal with him first.

 

Fenris' presence was ignored. The man went on as if no one new had entered the small gathering. Master Danarius was handed a cup of wine from a slave who was pouring bottles and settled as much as he could upon the hard stool he was offered, looking as calm and collected as he would at any social gathering. Fenris took his lead and took a long breath to settle himself.

 

"We need to focus our efforts." The man continued, his gaze brushing over Fenris for just a moment before continuing. "The Inquisition will pick us apart if we continue to pursue our own individual goals and causes for the Elder One. While it may have proved successful in the beginning it is simply unrealistic now. The ocularums are compromised, Redcliff was a disaster, and with the Inquisition forces and the red templars everywhere we have our movements limited."

 

A few murmurs from the group, many nodding in agreement while others rolled their eyes and muttered under their breath. Others gave pointed looks to each other, one mage smacked another with the back of his hand and glared at him. The contempt and the agreements were more open here than they would have been back in the parlours and dining halls of Minrathous. Fenris watched as a few of the men looked over their shoulders towards Master Danarius expectantly, only darting their gaze away when Fenris' found them.

 

"But we have our successes." The robed man said after a pause, turning toward Fenris and his Master. "Danarius and his red-lyrium _masterpiece_ saw to the end of the Ferelden monarchy. The country has not only been flung into political chaos under the majestic glow of the Breach, but they also now know the power the Venatori wields. Already our agents are operating in the great halls of many Ferelden nobles, ensuring that whoever wins the crown will be indebted to Tevinter, curled like a pet within the Venatori's lap."

 

Fenris started as a sudden cheer filled the air. Victorious instead of the jeering and threats he had come to expect. His Master stiffened, back rod-straight despite the appreciative smile across his face.

 

"And so we found ourselves here," The man raised his hands to gesture at the echoing elvhen hall. "In the Frostbacks near the red faults, the caverns where red lyrium pours richly from the mountain's walls. A gift from the Elder One, one that has been woefully misused by the southern templars. They create monstrosities, creatures that cannot be controlled or expected to perform feats such as our example here has."

 

Fenris swallowed hard, felt the red lyrium prick inside of him as if trying to wake against the oppressive cold. 

 

"Here we have protection from the Inquisition, red lyrium to mine and a slew of unprotected villages to raid for supply and slaves." The man lowered his hands, folding his arms as he narrowed his eyes at Danarius. "Enough to start the beginning of a red lyrium army, isn't that right, Danarius?"

 

Master Danarius did not answer, he simply raised his cup is a restrained agreement. The Venatori men grinned wickedly. Even without the red lyrium to pull apart Fenris' fear, he felt a deep sense of dread.

 

\----

 

The Venatori had secured the elvhen fortress, a vein of red lyrium an hour's walk away, and a holding of prisoners taken from a nearby village. They expected it to be enough for Master Danarius to begin his work and teach his techniques to the other mages there. Master Danarius appeared to disagree.

 

He was not impressed. His lips were thin and his eyes daggers as he went from Venatori official to official, Fenris following him as he went. Danarius demanded an actual work space, tools, and assistants to perform the actual rituals. None of which the Venatori had in supply, most Fenris was sure only existed back home in Minrathous within the damp cold basement of his Master's estate. 

 

The high-ranking Venatori smiled gently at the demands, as one might a child who stomped and cried while demanding sweets. They told him that such things could only be brought in with the promise of results and that as of now, Fenris alone was not enough of an assurance. They wanted their red lyrium soldiers. They felt they had invested plenty into Danarius' research, and now they expected their due.

 

They would not be swayed. Fenris could sense the fear in his Master, itched to be able to do something, _anything_ , to ease his burdens. He was muzzled here, at the mercy of the game the Venatori were playing with his Master, and for some reason still undesired by his Master in private. There was nothing he could do. 

 

The first afternoon in the camp was spent following Master Danarius from his arguments with the Venatori to shadowing him through the slopes around the fortress as he aided in warding the stronghold. Spells were woven into the land around the ruins, ones that would freeze intruders as they crossed the lines. They walked through the snow to the near caverns that glowed red from within. Fenris felt the lyrium before he saw its glow, the red inside of him rolling about in its slumber, whispering. Master Danarius went to the caverns to lay his wards against the lyrium's adverse effects as Fenris hesitated, remained standing alone in the snow.

 

The ward was erected and the whispering dulled back down to a murmuring hum. Fenris let his eyelids droop as he dropped to his knees in the snow, alone and suddenly enveloped in the silence and calm that he had not been able to feel since before the red was put within him. The snow was inviting, cool against his hot skin, pleasant as he sunk down into it as he might have done once into a hot bath. By the time Master Danarius returned from the cave Fenris was flat on his back, arms spread as the snow beneath him slowly melted. The ice-water smooth and soothing against him as his mind remained silent.

 

Master Danarius called to him and for a moment, Fenris could not move. Too enveloped in the peace he had found in the deep freezing snow. He found, for only a moment, that he did not want to answer to his Master. He wanted to stay in this moment in the cold. He wanted to be rid of the anxieties and fear and weight that walked in his shadow as he followed his Master. Wanted to be rid of it all. Wanted to fall through the snow into a cold expanse that would hold him, sooth as the noise of the world was muted by the thick layers of cold.

 

Master called him again, voice harsher as he began to plow back through the snow. Fenris reluctantly rose and followed, several yards away. Once they returned to the elvhen ruins his Master turned to study his expression, eyes sharp but still betraying an uncertainty behind them. It was not the thinly veiled fear Fenris saw in his eyes when the red lyrium burned and raked its teeth, but it was not dissimilar. Fenris felt vaguely ashamed of himself, ears dropping slowly until Danarius turned away to resume the work the Venatori had laid out for him.

 

Later as the sun began to set Danarius was invited to eat at the large fire where the men had all gathered earlier. Fenris stood alongside, watching the gestures and expressions of the few men gathered as one of them engaged Danarius in conversation. Fenris knew him, he was the man who had accompanied him and Quintus to Denerim.

He spoke casually of a red lyrium shipment he had put out to Tevinter to another mage who felt confident they too could create red lyrium soldiers by forcing it down the throats of slaves. Fenris' ears pinned, unsure if his discomfort was at the assumption that any mage could hope to match the intellect and achievement of his Master, or if it was something else. The man went on to explain how the lyrium was wasted and all of the elves, trained fighting elves, had been destroyed by its effects.

 

Fenris noticed the man looked hungrily over his red lyrium lines, a strange twitch evident in his hands that made Fenris nervous. 

 

The man further explained that he was to lead the effort to secure and mine the red lyrium in the area. Quintus was overseeing new slave acquisition apparently, and had gone off to inspect the prisoners a group of Venatori raiders had brought back from a nearby village.

 

"They are Orlesian, barely speak common," He explained as Master Danarius finished his meal. "Aggressive, but harmless, won't be good for much besides blood magic and mining lyrium until it ruins them. I can show them to you, see what you're working with."

 

The caught slaves were kept in the deepest part of the ruin, behind a makeshift door into a small room within the fortress. They were enclosed by a magical ward, one Fenris could tell, from the prickling in his lyrium, would hurt to touch. A dozen men, women and children were behind the ward, human and elf alike. As Quintus turned and greeted them, Fenris could see some of the prisoners stand and shout, but no sound reached them, the ward blocking their voices. They were fit and healthy but clearly would be too much work to train, especially if they barely even spoke Common. Fenris looked away as his Master assessed the pack.

 

"Good stock for blood magic." Master Danarius said after a moment of squinting through the barrier at the helpless, shouting slaves. "Healthy and fit _and_ unbroken, they are worth about three of the pathetic elves they sell for fodder back home."

 

“Good eye.” Quintus smirked, his gaze going to Fenris’ unflinchingly. Without the red inside of him to thrash and hiss at the look Fenris found himself vulnerable under the gaze, his ears pinning back as he held the eye contact. “I knew you had good taste in slaves, but clearly you know how to discern quality.”

 

Master Danarius' gaze trailed to one of the slaves and remained fixed, a curious look in his eye. Fenris quickly followed his gaze to a young male elf that stood in the back, eyes and hair both fair. A terrible feeling rolled through Fenris' stomach, disgust and dread and heartache at what he _knew_ the expression meant in his Master's eye.

 

"A waste..." Danarius mused, keeping his eyes fixed on the elf. 

 

Quintus looked from Danarius to the elf he stared at and smirked. "They are untamed, but no reason you couldn't _sample_ them, Magister."

 

After nightfall the elf from the slaveholding was brought to Master Danarius' tent. He was restrained with arms bound behind him and a makeshift rope collar and leash around his neck. A warrior slave carried him by his bound arms as he kicked and muttered viciously in his foreign tongue. He was dropped to his knees in front of Master's tent, held down in place by Quintus' boot against the back of his neck as the man made pointed eye contact with Fenris and smirked.

 

The red curled within Fenris at the sight, the heat rising as the brands slowly came to an angry glow. He almost growled as Danarius waved him aside to allow the captured elf to be dragged into his tent. His skin prickled, jealousy aflame within him as he listened to Quintus and Danarius discuss how the elf should be bound. The quiet in his mind he had cultivated in the cold snow was devoured by the angry, paranoid biting of his lyrium as it woke from its slumber. 

 

_Master Danarius doesn't want you. He won't even touch you. He'll never restore you. You are too valuable as you are to these Venatori. He will find other elves to take pleasure in. Ones younger and prettier and before long he will find one to replace you. He will sail home to Tevinter and leave you here. You will be abandoned and lost._

 

Fenris dropped to his knees outside of the tent as Quintus left, hands digging into the sparse snow at his knees to press handfuls against his forehead. It melted almost instantly. Not enough to cool the voice that raked its teeth against him and dug its claws at his fears. He felt a sharp edge inside of his mind the longer it growled and riled against him. Somehow he remembered what it felt to be abandoned, to be lost and alone, to not have his Master at his side, but the thoughts came sharp and cut his mind into slices. Steaming and burning inside of him as he heard helpless crying and wailing from within the tent.

 

The sounds continued and Fenris didn't know if he hated _them_ or the cackling torturous voice inside of him more. He wanted to run from the elvhen ruins, bolt into the snowy mountains and be lost within its freezing embrace. He wanted to storm into the tent and tear the elf away from his Master and end him for disrespecting his Master, for taking his Master's affectionate glances away from him. 

 

And yet the thought of being in the slave's place caught roughly on something inside of him, a rocky crag within his mind that pierced through the fog of the forgotten years. The red paused, coiling as its eyes fixed on it. Doubt, fear, dread. It existed there under the surface and Fenris's body tensed and shook at the thought of being _tied down_. Of not being the docile and willing loyal slave, of being forced and wrecked with a jeering voice above him whispering _"Did_ he _take you like this? You gave it all up for him didn't you? How could you have forgotten that you are my little-"_

 

White hot pain struck behind Fenris' eyes. His mind reeled from the fragmented memory to flash through the collection of broken memories within him. Fire, smoke, sand, a bottle breaking against stone and shattering, city streets bathed in moonlight, the red-streaked man in front of a campfire under the stars. They hurt. The red filled the gaps between them, searing the edges to burn them back while whispering more hatred and paranoia into Fenris. 

 

Time passed outside of Fenris while he curled his forehead to the ground, trying to will his mind to be quiet and peaceful. He didn't notice when the sounds stopped, or when his Master called his name from inside the tent. The turmoil inside of him only overcome when he was pushed from his position in the snow, shoved aside as his Master dragged the bound slave from the tent and threw him to the ground before Fenris.

 

"Kill him." Danarius ordered. 

 

Fenris scrambled from where he fell, eyes darting to the elf on the ground who writhed slowly onto his back. His eyes were glassy. Dark lines on his face revealed that Master had used some sort of entropy magic on him, he was trapped in an unknowable state, voice taken and body useless outside of the small twitching movements he was forcing. 

 

Fenris climbed to his feet as his head throbbed. His Master watched him critically, squinting slightly as if trying to work out a puzzle. Everything blurred, his mind out of focus and echoing dully as he reached for the slave's fair hair and lifted him from the ground.

 

The elf looked Fenris in the eye, fighting the magic that was entrapping him. The eyes were not unseeing. They met Fenris' with something cold and broken but somehow empathetic. As if this Orlesian elf could _see_ him. As if he understood something about Fenris that he himself did not. It was not fear, despair, or any of the responses Fenris would expect. It was gentle sympathy. 

 

Fenris hesitated. Staring into those eyes as the red inside him pulsed in his brands. It was pushing and growling at Fenris to punish this elf and kill him to satisfy the fear and desperation that hounded him. To prove to his Master why he was the favoured slave. To destroy the elf who had satisfied his Master where he had failed. But Fenris did not move. He could not move. Something _else_ rose in his chest, a memory or a thought so foreign and strange it felt as if it did not belong within him. _This was not fair._ This was something dreadful and terrifying and wrong. Fenris' chest ached and something inside of him fought to be heard, to escape and pull Fenris' hand away and -

 

" _Kill him!_ " Danarius shouted.

 

Red light filled Fenris' vision, pulsing hot as he tore out the elf’s throat. Blood erupted onto his hand and chest before he dropped the body to the ground. It fell without ceremony, bleeding out onto the white snow. The red of it spread to Fenris' bare toes as the hot red within him receded back into near silence. Spent. He felt a bit ill, his mind reduced to a grey wash of fog and numbness as he turned to his Master.

 

Danarius struck him. The back of his hand, heavily decorated with cut stone rings, slapped Fenris so hard he nearly fell back onto the corpse. Fenris flinched too late, shoulders twitching into a sudden cower as his breath became a broken hiccup in his chest. There was a distant snickering beyond the ringing sound in Fenris' ears right before his Master grabbed one hard and dragged him inside of the tent.

 

Fenris stumbled after his Master, eyes squeezed shut, fearing the worst as his thoughts scattered into confusion and dread. He was shoved to his knees, curling over himself as his Master twisted the ear and hissed in displeasure. Fenris wanted to run, wanted to escape his Master's wrath, wanted to leave his body and return only when whatever was coming was over. The thoughts were sharp and absurd but would not stop, he had to force himself not to beg for mercy as his Master shook him for his attention.

 

"Ruined!" Danarius hissed and Fenris' mouth leaked a broken sound. "You bring _shame_ to my name, Fenris. Do you not remember who _made you_ what you are? Do you not remember what you _are_ and who _owns_ you? The _fortune_ I wasted on you, and this is how you obey me? This is what you have become?"

 

The words cut, striking Fenris and chipped away at the small bit of resolve he had to take his punishment gracefully and dutifully. The red violently twisted and fought like a snake pinned to the ground, helpless. The bubble in his chest popped and another broken sound left him and then would not stop. It opened to a despair and hollowness so deep that Fenris could not see its end as he sobbed and choked.

 

"Please Master!" He begged, the red lyrium in his brands flickering hot like hissing coals doused with water. "Master _please_."

 

His Master ignored the empty, aimless pleas, his fist closing in Fenris' hair to pull his gaze up to him. Blinking hard against welling tears Fenris looked up to see the hardened, cold, disappointment in his Master's eyes.

 

"Ruined." Danarius said through gritted teeth, his own face red with embarrassment and fury. "Ever since you left. _Ruined_."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the wait, there was a lot happening in my life and this chapter was Difficult.
> 
> That being said, I hope this is worth the wait. <3

Snow shifted and fell heavily to the ground from the evergreen as Hawke slowly crawled up its bough. The sun was setting, already beneath the Frostback's peaks, and the only light was the fading reds painted across the darkening sky. It was Hawke's last chance to scout the Venatori fortress with his own eyes before the Inquisition pressed her forces against the walls.

He had been prevented from joining the forward scouting party by the Inquisition's spymaster who told him she was unwilling to send him in with her own people because of his personal emotional investment of the mission. Hawke couldn't argue with the logic of it, and additionally could not challenge her since, by the time he spoke with her, the spies she had sent were already three days ahead of them. He and Varric instead travelled with a sizeable company of Cullen's soldiers specially selected to combat the Venatori. Hawke followed Varric's advice and did not speak of his reasoning for joining them on this seemingly routine mission, even though he was asked multiple times by men and women who recognized him as the famed Champion of Kirkwall.

The recognition was as strange now as it was in Denerim and with the Wardens. It felt undeserving after all his time living as little more than a ghost. But having the same men and women that would be unknowingly assisting in the only goal Hawke cared about since leaving Kirkwall look up to him in awe felt good. After only one night at camp with the soldiers listening raptly as Varric retold one of his (highly embellished) tales of the Champion, he found himself mixing fresh war paint in his tent, starting out the next morning with it proudly across his face.

But the fear and doubt was not far behind him. The chances of the mission failing were high, so high that Hawke knew he needed to embrace all the hope and confidence he could muster. Varric had been right, the likelihood of either Hawke or Fenris dying by the end of the mission was higher than he would like to admit. But the plans for the battle were set, Hawke and Varric were to join the first wave of archers that covered the first foot soldiers, giving them a chance to locate Fenris and pull him from the battle to save casualties and, hopefully, to save him.

The attack was to commence as soon as the Inquisitor Sabrae met them at the nearby camp. It wasn't common for the Inquisitor to join this sort of mission, but he was eager to ensure that Hawke had his chance to help Fenris, and he also apparently had a personal grudge against the Venatori. Sabrae was expected within the hour and the air had been tense at the camp, so Hawke found himself calmer and more collected at the top of a snow-covered tree. A last shelf of snow slipped easily to the ground and Hawke was able to see the delicate curved roofs and spires of the elvhen ruin the Venatori were fortified in. 

Hawke's heart raced as he took in the Venatori banners erected at the fortress' entrance. Even from here he could see the glimmering edges of magic wards and traps that littered the clearing before the ruins. The warrior slaves were nowhere to be seen, no doubt tucked behind the walls to be unleashed at a moment's notice. There was no way the Venatori did not know that the Inquisition was close. The Tevinter mages were probably gearing up behind the walls Hawke was squinting at, readying themselves to protect their humble fortress.

Somewhere inside Fenris was probably tense and ready for combat with Danarius close by. A shiver of excitement and dread filled Hawke at the thought. _Finally_ he was about to have his chance to free Fenris now that he had a small army at his back. He could finally see Fenris and act, standing out from the shadows to call Fenris' name...

"Hawke!" Varric hissed from beneath, down at the base of the tree. "The forward team is coming, it’s time to get your show on the road."

Hawke slipped carefully down the tree and landed next to Varric in the snow moments before the first wave of soldiers in Inquisition heraldry appeared through the trees. Their shields were up, the equipment not quite matching from one to another, but they were unified as much as any force could be. They nodded to Hawke and Varric as they passed by. Behind the initial line were the archers they were to fall in with, Varric nudged at Hawke's side as they followed the hooded rogues through the low-hanging trees into clearer land. 

"You alright?" Varric said quietly, voice cloaked from the nearby soldiers. 

Hawke nodded quickly. He was not alright. Seeing these people on the ground here, so close to the Venatori he had tracked for so long out on the Storm Coast, filled him with a sense of dread he had not anticipated. Hawke knew what Fenris was capable of, he had seen it with his own eyes in Denerim. He knew from the briefing the numbers of warrior slaves and mages that were lurking behind the walls and he couldn't stop himself from fearing for the lives of the Inquisition forces that were willing to knock down their door. The mission was not all about him and Fenris, he was little more than a tag-along, but he couldn't help but fear he would hold himself responsible for any who fell tonight. 

He had to remind himself that this battle would be taking place even if he and Fenris were not here. The wars of Thedas were raging on without them, and they had simply been swept up into their current positions by tides of circumstance. Would it not have been for that single battle at the Hanged Man, the both of them could be together right now and far away from these front lines. But that did not matter now. Hawke did not need to feel responsible for those that marched alongside him, creeping towards the elvhen ruins in the dark. He only needed to focus on his part of the mission and get Fenris as far away from the battle as fast as he possibly could. He had to focus on that and only that. Any distraction could have him killed tonight.

A light lit up in the underbrush and Hawke caught sight of Sabrae filing through the archers behind the first line, head bent under the snow-heavy branches of the trees around them. His staff was lit at its end, a cool clear light that turned eyes towards him as archers and soldiers alike put fists at their chest and bowed their heads in respect. The elf was dressed in what looked like a patchwork of furs and skins, the white blending with the snow and framing his dark face under the hood that covered his shaved head. He smiled and nodded to Hawke specifically before carrying on past him, followed closely by what Hawke suspected were members of the inner circle he had not met. Sabrae's appearance in the line meant the battle was imminent. 

Hawke pulled his bow from his back, locking the red-tailed end of one of his arrows in place as he followed the forward line. The soldiers ahead made a strong shield wall as they came out from the tree cover, nothing before them but the slushy white expanse outside the ruins. They were larger from here than it looked from up in the trees. The white walls absorbed the moonlight, the Venatori banners fluttering across them in the mountain breeze. It was quiet. All still under the darkening sky. No fire light emitted from the ruins, no sound, and it was as if the land and the forces that were to do battle were holding a collective breath.

Right as the wait became an intolerable itch, there was a call from down the line. The small contingent of soldiers picked up their shields at once and slowly moved onto the field as Hawke saw the Inquisitor wave his staff in the middle of the snowy field. Ice and snow exploded around him, cascading soft slush and water down to the ground as the spell traps disintegrated in the air. The path cleared of the twinkling magic that Hawke had scouted, the soldiers picking up their pace forward. The archers around Hawke rushed into position and drew back their bows, pointing to the single large arched entryway to the ruins.

A roar cried out from the ancient structure and a stream of armed men poured from the ruin's entrance. They were large, waving their broad weapons above their heads as they ran bare-chested into the snow directly towards them. Their faces were obscured by full-faced helmets, hot breath puffing out from them as they ran, locks swinging from their collars. Hawke swallowed hard, taking a step back as the archers on either side of him let their arrows fly. The soldiers charged forward, slamming the slave warriors back with their shields as they raised their swords and clashed. Arrows pelted the unarmored men, sticking between ribs and out of arms as they roared and swung their broadswords and battle axes. Weapons hit soldiers and their shields, bouncing off as the Tevinter warriors roared and thrust themselves against the tower shields, pushing the soldiers back in the slippery slush. 

The grappling and swinging weapons were fearsome, but the slaves were largely unarmored and their blood was pouring from their wounds. It occurred to Hawke, in a flash of a thought, that these men were never intended for combat, but simply for consumption. Their blows and strikes and Tevene curses shouted from behind caged helmets were a performance. The Venatori were so unprepared for their southern invasion they had brought warrior performers in place of trained and equipped soldiers.

Blood splattered to the ground. Red mixing with the quickly melting snow. Hawke held back, eyes scanning for Fenris in the chaos, his heart racing. Magic ripped across the battlefield, fires ran across the field and spread. A chill ran down Hawke as a spell enveloped one of the warriors until he was ripping at his helmet and screaming, the ripples of the spell making Hawke shake as he lowered his bow and tried to _focus_. More slave warriors were spilling from the entrance as Venatori archers and rogues slipped into the battle, arrows and spells flying through the small space as slaves were downed and pushed underfoot as the soldiers advanced. 

Mages appeared at the entrance dressed head to toe in Venatori colours. Their robes flew back as their staves hit the ground, magic wrinkling the air before falling in hails of sparks and flames. The Inquisitor and a few of the Inquisition's mages swung their staves to dispel them, shields and barriers breaking into light over the most vulnerable fighters. 

One of the Venatori mages at the steps gathered energy and Hawke could already feel the prickle of it aimed in his direction. He grabbed Varric and pulled them both several yards away, sliding on snow and blood as electricity cracked through Inquisition soldiers and Venatori slaves alike right to where they had been standing. The static jumped between bodies after the first strike, soldiers twitching the last of the effects off as others dropped down to their knees and struggled. Varric pulled himself from Hawke's grasp, untouched by the magic and gave Hawke a thankful knock of his knuckles before hefting Bianca back up and showering nearby Venatori archers and rogues in bolts. 

Their new position was slightly higher, perched a bit upwards on the cliffside that gave Hawke a clearer view of the battle as it raged bloody below them. The slave warriors were falling rapidly, full of arrows and slices through their bellies and chests spilling blood to the ground. The mages on the steps were pulling back slightly, working up offences to keep the soldiers from breaking through and getting into the ruins. Ice walls erected before them, pulling up ancient stone brick work to twist into the shields just as the soldiers approached.

Arrows hit the stone on either side of Hawke and Varric, colliding with sparks and flames that died in the soft snow around them. They dropped, knees soaking in the ice under them as Hawke unleashed a flurry of his own red-tailed arrows down to the battlefield. Venatori archers and rogues grabbed at where his arrows pierced their shoulders and arms, Varric's bolts filling them as they struggled and fell still to the ground. Soldiers and warrior slaves were stepping on their bodies as they continued to struggle on the field.

More slaves were falling, their faces hidden behind the steel facades as their bodies writhed and stilled in the pools of melted snow and their own steaming hot blood. The Venatori rogues and archers began to join them, their superior training useless without their human shields to protect them from the Inquisition's swords. More mages appeared at the entrance, a few simply seemed to look out at the battle before they vanished again into the fortress again. Others joined the effort from behind the magicked barrier, all of them suddenly dropping their staves to face each other as their hands matched in a display of fast, practised movements. 

Oh. Oh _shit_. 

Hawke's stomach dropped as the blood spilled in the snow suddenly receded, darkening to a glistening black under the moonlight as it crawled along the ground to the mages to collect under their feet. The fire from torches and bodies dimmed at once as bursts of darkness appeared across the battlefield. They flickered like black spots in Hawke's eyes, dotting between soldiers and archers and the Venatori's last men. Hawke's stomach twisted, his vision doubling as demons erupted from the earth. Shades screeched as their tattered arms pulled them out from the ground among the fallen gore and viscera. They distorted the air around them, difficult to look at without blinking hard to try and focus on the malformed bodies within the fogged rags that could never be seen. The Inquisition soldiers faltered, frightened as they slipped on the snow and blood under them.

Hawke pulled his arrows and began firing as the Inquisitor and his team split up to take down the demons quicker. The battlefield thinned as archers and rogues retreated to the edges of the field and soldiers moved to support the Inquisitor's men as they attacked the demons. The mages behind the wall looked exhausted, grasping for support as they fumbled for lyrium potions to revitalise them. 

And then it happened. 

Hawke spotted the lyrium shift in the air only a second before Fenris materialised onto the battlefield. He stood in the middle of the battle, the red lyrium brands burning a hot glow around him as it surged and lifted from the markings into ridges on his skin. He just stood there, eyes sweeping across the battle with a casual detachment. From this far away he looked small, without his full armor and without a weapon. The Venatori collar too large around his shoulders and neck. 

_This was it_. This was the moment he could finally reach out to him, call his name and run to him. The invisible barriers that had separated them along the Storm Coast were gone. Hawke had all the support he needed for what would come. He had his chance to _save_ him. 

He stepped thoughtlessly from his position, moving towards the center of the battle. Varric yelled something to him above the noise and shouts and weapon clash of the battle but Hawke could not hear him. His eyes were locked on Fenris, watching with a strange numbness as the red lyrium formed into a blade from Fenris' arm, collecting around his fist to create a red glowing scythe. 

" _Fenris_." Hawke whispered, his voice broken in his throat. He was moving towards him as if in a dream. The air was thick and he could not breathe and could not move faster. The battle around him made not a sound and yet drowned him within it. Demons swept through the air around him. Soldiers faltered and wavered before steeling themselves. The Inquisition's mages cast green shields around them as they fought back. None of it mattered. Fenris became the source of his gravity. The only light in the dark.

Fenris paused to stare down at the fallen bodies beneath him, his red eyes trailing to one of Hawke's red arrows in the debris of battle. Hawke barely noticed, only seeing the hesitation in Fenris to join the battle and attack. Perhaps this would be easy. Perhaps this would go the way Hawke had seen in dreams, their eyes would lock now as Hawke neared him, and all the damage and all the years would slip away. They could be _together_ again. He could hear his voice and touch his hand and they would go home.

Something hot and hardened in Hawke's chest broke and he shouted across the last few yards between them.

"Fenris!"

Fenris' head snapped in Hawke's direction. His red eyes impossibly wide, white all the way around their red glow. The red within his brands darkened and dimmed, the blade from his hand thinning as his eyes pierced into Hawke's. Time stopped. Everything on the battlefield was lost to Hawke. And as fast as they had locked eyes Fenris' stare turned into pure terror. Dread and fear and madness filled his red eyes, the expression hauntingly similar to the look Fenris had all those years ago when Danarius appeared in the Hanged Man.

The red inside of Fenris flared back to life, brighter and more vivid than Hawke had ever seen it. So bright that the men near Fenris had to stop to block the light from their eyes. It licked off of him, red crystal crackling from his brands like the embers from a roaring bonfire. Fenris' teeth grit into a barred grimace as his expression transformed from terror into _rage_. 

Hawke went cold, stiff, prickling around the edges of his being as a sudden and desperate panic screamed at him to _run_.

The sound of battle roars back to life as feeling returned to his limbs. A rip of sound tore through his ears and Fenris vanished in thin air. The red glow faded and Fenris was _gone_. Hawke's heart raced, beating so hard he could hear the rush of blood as it pounded in his head. 

_Fenris was going to kill him_.

Hawke bolted. Tearing himself from the battlefield as fast as his feet could carry him through the slippery carpet of blood and slush. He weaved through the battle, evading the swings of swords and the ripples of spells that cracked through the air. Demons hissed at him as he ran past, his sweat running cold as he _knew_ Fenris was chasing him unseen somewhere between here and the Fade. His only chance to not be stabbed through by the red lyrium ripping through reality was to make it as difficult for Fenris to reappear as possible. 

The battlefield around the elvhen ruins gave way to a steep and rocky slope. Hawke ran over the edge with the cold wind whistling in his ears before his feet slid against frozen dirt. He jumped from one cracked stone to another as quick as his feet would carry him. He fumbled for his daggers under his cloak as he landed on snowy earth, eyes scanning for the telltale wrinkle of lyrium in the air. Fenris was not as agile as he was, or at least, he hadn't been before. The cliff would buy Hawke time, but it would not save him. He rushed along the steep ledges, boots slipping on ice, searching for anything that would protect him from the red's instant death. He spotted a tall tree growing out from the cliffside some yards away, sturdy and thick enough to hold his weight. He swallowed a breath and held it as he slipped and slid to the tree, the panic inside thrashing against him at every shaky breath he took as he held his dagger close. Expecting Fenris to reappear at any second to rip him in pieces.

His hands hit the bark, his knuckles knocked between the tree and the dagger held tight in his fist. He scrambled up it, lunging up towards branches as his hands and feet gripped as much as they could to the bough. Fenris couldn't climb, not like he could. Even if Fenris was able to climb after him, Hawke had the advantage. He looked over his shoulder at the steep fall, the ground obscured by darkness as the sounds of the battlefield grew again. He climbed up above, the flashes of magic shining in the frozen sap and water trails, he was above the landing and the walls of the elvhen ruin ran alongside him. He ran out of branches to grab onto, his boots wedged in their last foot holds, twisting his back and pulling his cloak away from where it caught. Fenris had not reappeared. The cliffside was bare, peaceful if not for the bloody battle that waged just beyond it. 

Hawke used the moment to catch his breath, his head pounding and his thoughts racing. His mind fumbling with what had just happened, what it was he had originally planned to do when he found Fenris alone on the battlefield. It was lost to him like arrows dropped in battle, scattering faraway and useless. Fenris was _terrified_ of him. The thought burned and twisted and confounded. The moment Fenris met eyes with him replayed over and over in his head. He remembered the look of murderous rage in those once green eyes. Fenris would kill him. And he was hiding up a tree. 

Hawke pulled his bow from his back, readying an arrow that he had previously laced with paralyzing poison. If Fenris reappeared he could easily shoot him from here, keep the upper hand, hope the poison would take and then- 

Red flashed as Fenris appeared beneath him at the base of the tree. The lyrium tore the air, the sound causing the hair on the back of Hawke's neck to stand. Fenris' markings glowed in the dark, the red of it illuminating all the way up to where Hawke was balanced in the tree. His eyes were glowing, narrowing as he gritted his teeth and growled like an animal. Hawke's heart beat so hard it threatened to drop him from the branches as he pulled back on his bowstring, staring Fenris down along his arrow. He trembled. This was wrong. Everything was _wrong_. The red under Fenris' skin lifted, crystal ridges rising from his bared arms and the deep cut of his tunic like dragon scales. Hawke couldn't stop his hands from shaking, couldn't stop his throat from knotting.

He shot the arrow. The red tail wavered, as unsure and terrified as Hawke was. Fenris flinched, his snarling expression slipping for the second the arrow flew. It hit Fenris in the arm, sinking in shallowly, possibly too shallow for the poison to make a proper hold. Hawke gripped the tree under him, his head swimming. Fenris reached a hand to pull the arrow but stopped as the red lyrium grew around it, cracking as it sharpened to points and snapped the shaft. It grew, encasing the arrow head as it pulled away from the flesh, blackening from the touch of the lyrium until Hawke could no longer see it through the sickening glow it emitted. Fenris twitched, blinking hard up at Hawke with wild eyes as the lyrium creaked and crackled from him until his arm was hidden under a glowing blade. Hawke could _smell_ the sear of flesh, the burnt wood from his arrow, somehow felt the heat that beat off the lyrium blade as his hands fumbled and dropped a second arrow.

The arrow fell, bouncing from the stone beneath the tree and down to the expanse of blackness beyond as the red scythe swung and hit the tree. Hawke gripped the branches, the smell of burnt wood instant as the tree whined and swayed from the blow. He peered over the edge, caught sight of Fenris throwing the blade at the bough again as scorched splinters flew from it. Hawke needed to get out of the tree before it fell, he wouldn't be able to survive the fall _and_ Fenris' attack. He had no choice, no plan now that the poison was burned up in the red lyrium, all he could do was _run_ and hope to live through the night. He slipped the bow through his shoulder and gripped the tree bough to find a better vantage. The tree shook and creaked, wavering as Hawke slid down a yard. It cracked under the weight just as Hawke leap to the snow-laden cliff edge above Fenris. Cold wet snow broke his fall. He landed on his side with a crack. Arrows spilled as he rushed to his feet, the ruin wall under his reaching hand and supporting him as he groaned at his own weight.

The tree fell away as Hawke panted and grabbed at a broken rib in his side. The smell of burnt wood faded as he managed to straighten, hand trailing the wall for support as his side pierced him with each step. Fenris would be behind him within a second. Fenris would cut him down with one swipe of the red lyrium blade. Hawke would die in the snow as the lyrium ate into his flesh. Fenris would return to Danarius, would never be free again.

Hawke _had_ to survive this. He had to return to the battlefield, find Varric, have the Inquisitor and his forces shield him and heal his side so he could fight another day. The thought seemed foolish. Unrealistic, but he had to keep going.

"Hawke!" A familiar voice cried out in the dark and Hawke squinted in the dark, ahead of him near the din of battle. Varric was out there, looking for him, Varric could help. 

He swallowed down a fear that Varric might shoot down Fenris and shouted back, "Over here!"

The air around Hawke wrinkled. No, no, no, _no_. Sharpness and heat caught on Hawke's back, slicing through armor, the winter air against his back as he stumbled and tried to run. Fenris was behind him. Fenris cut him, had only grazed him but he could feel the prickling heat against the wound. His heart raced as he ran, his chest throbbing. Varric's form appeared faraway in the dark, his crossbow before him and Hawke felt the wind from the bolts as they flew past him. He imagined the metal bolts embedding in the red lyrium, blackening and falling away as Fenris pursued him.

Hawke's feet slipped from under him and he stumbled to his knees. He pulled his second dagger as he fell, ready to sink it in Fenris when he inevitably caught up. If he had the chance to. It wouldn’t stop Fenris from ripping him to pieces in the snow but Hawke did not know what else to do. He had failed. He had come this far and foolishly thought he could fix the years of abandonment and damage with some heroic gesture. He was wrong. And now Fenris would come to kill him.

Hawke pulled himself up on one foot, turning in the thick snow to face him. Fenris was there, marching through the snow bathed in red light. The lyrium blade dragged in the snow, too long and heavy to lift. His face was a mask of focused murderous intent. His eyes were blank, red as blood and void of everything that Hawke had once seen in them. 

Hawke couldn't save him. It was too late. He had waited too long. It was his fault and now he would meet the end he deserved. 

He could hear Varric call out again behind him but he saw no need to respond. It was over and Hawke was simply sorry Varric was going to have to watch him be slayed as he limped through the snow. Fenris was close now, a few steps away, a predator coming in for the kill. The red scythe lifted from the snow, thinned to a honed edge. Hawke looked to Fenris' eyes as an expression surfaced from the red void. Fear, shaking fear and resolve. Fenris trembled as he neared, his lyrium-encased arm pulled back and then swung toward Hawke-

And hit the green wall of a fresh barrier that lifted between them. The magic surged around Hawke as the red lyrium sliced just past it, cut off slightly by its raw magic before Fenris pulled it out from the barrier. Fenris' eyes went wide, fear giving way to an angry and somehow _hopeless_ expression before he slammed his red lyrium limb against the wall of magic. Hawke's mind went blank as he watched Fenris grit his teeth and hit at the barrier over and over as Tevene burst from his mouth, spitting and angry and endless. The words so close and fast Hawke could not catch a single one, could only watch as Fenris' expression flipped back and forth between terror and upset to rage and then down to something that Hawke had rarely seen. A hurt and desperate look that overtook him before he beat at the barrier with his hands, the red lyrium crawling back within and discoloring in his flesh. Hawke could see the red lines in his palms as they lay flat and shaking across the green barrier. 

Hawke's heart ached. He couldn't understand Fenris' words. He did not know the source of the terror and the endless hurt in his eyes. He could only feel his heart weight heavier and heavier as he watched, struggled to his feet, tears threatening to trickle from his own eyes as he watched the man he loved and lost suffer at the sight of him.

As quickly as the barrier had separated them it began to fade, weakening in color on Hawke's side where Fenris would not see the waning of the spell. Hawke stumbled back, gripping his dagger close to him, ready for the barrier to drop and the danger to return. The barrier had given him only a moment to catch his breath as the blood ran down his back and around his broken ribs. Had given him only a second to see his love close again before he had to fight for his life. 

Hawke _had_ to save him. He had no choice. He had to make it.

The green faded completely and Fenris' eyes shot to Hawke's, the red in his limbs flaring back to a vibrant hue. He snarled, animalistic, and Hawke could see sharp teeth. Hawke stumbled, feeling the heat of the lyrium against him as Fenris stepped forward and suddenly wavered on the spot. He swayed, as if he were walking on a rocking ship. He blinked, confusion evident as the red faded again and he sunk to his knees in the snow. Hawke stepped toward him without thinking, wanting to catch him from falling as Fenris' eyelids drooped and his face twisted into a fear that broke Hawke's heart.

The Tevene that slipped from Fenris was quiet and weak, " _Get out of my head._ "

Fenris' eyes rolled back as he fell, limp in the snow as the red faded to a dim glow.


	18. Chapter 18

Fenris laid limp in the snow. The red glowed dimly, illuminating where he had fallen amid moonlit in the white snow under him. It lit his face where all tension had released. He looked as if he was sleeping peacefully, as he had all those years ago beside Hawke, and not like he had just been gaining on Hawke to kill him. 

Hawke's breath was racing and his heart pounding. The fear that he had just carried slipped from him slowly as he watched Fenris' chest rise and fall a few feet away. He dropped his dagger into the snow, planted his hand back against his broken ribs and rose to his feet. He could hear the lulling battle behind him, could hear his name being shouted. None of it mattered. He stumbled toward where Fenris lay, each step aggravating and tearing at the wound the elf had sliced into his back. 

He slipped on the snow, wet and melting under him, and dragged himself on his knees to Fenris' side. It was the closest he had been to him in _years_. He felt all the longing and love he had carried each year rising to the surface. His eyes watered as he pushed close to Fenris' side, the snow crunching and rising between them. Fenris was in a deep sleep, his body boneless, his breath soft where his lips parted and all Hawke wanted to do was kiss him. He wanted to kneel and press his lips against Fenris'. Have him open his eyes and smile as he did all those years ago, a lifetime ago, back in Kirkwall. 

But Hawke couldn't. He could not force his love upon Fenris when he had just shown terror at the sight of him. _What had they done to him?_ Up this close he could see how the red lyrium shimmered and shifted subtly within Fenris' markings, he could feel the heat coming off of them even through the unfamiliar black leathers Fenris was armoured in. He could see the details in the large collar that had caused him heartbreak to see on Fenris. Too large, it held Fenris' head from lolling in his sleep, dark leather marked with runes and a thick lock keeping it all in place, nearly the size of the elf's fist. 

"You're a free man." Hawke hissed to Fenris' comatose face as he reached for his lock picking tools. His ribs ground as he twisted, the wound in his back searing as he found his kit and laid it in the snow next to them. He pulled out a pick and a pin with shaking bloodied hands, ignoring his name being shouted again, and turned to the collar. 

The snow behind him crunched with hurried steps and before Hawke could react something hard hit the back of his head. He dropped his tools, head pounding from the impact as he stumbled in the snow to turn to defend Fenris' vulnerable form. A man stood over him in the dark, a faint red light illuminating robes and a staff. Hawke's dagger was three feet away lost in the snow, he had nothing to defend him. He growled and kicked out, back and ribs screaming at the action. The man jumped back but held up a hand in a gesture Hawke could not read in his panic.

"Do _not_ touch that!" The man demanded and Hawke's spine prickled at his accent, his voice unfamiliar but _Tevinter_. Venatori, here to reclaim Fenris and take him back to Danarius. He must have cast whatever it was that felled Fenris and was going to finish Hawke off and Hawke would _not allow that to happen_ to either of them. Not now. Not now that he finally had Fenris back.

" _I'll end you!_ " Hawke snarled in his rusty Tevene at the man, thinking to reach for Fenris' sword before remembering he had not had one. It didn't matter. He pulled his bow off his bleeding back clumsily, second hand fumbling for an arrow, it didn't matter that he didn’t have enough time before the mage would light him on fire. He wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Hawke!" Varric shouted, a foot behind the Tevinter, panting and grabbing at his knees to steady himself. "He's _fine_ , he's with the Inquisition. Andraste's tits. This snow is killing me."

Hawke froze, the arrow in his hand drooping as he looked from Varric to the stranger and back again. He struggled with the information for a moment, blinking hard as his torso ached and seeped blood. He lowered his bow slowly and let it fall against the wet snow between them. His head pounded as he narrowed his eyes towards the mage, trying to make him out in the darkness. 

"Is he deaf as well as daft?" The man shook his head as he put away his staff and made a half-hearted appeasing hand gesture to Hawke. "Honestly, didn't you hear us calling you?"

"I..." Hawke frowned, piecing together what had just happened. Varric in the distance, Fenris gaining on him, and then the magic barrier and Fenris dropping limp to the ground. Ah. He turned to Varric, an anger rising up quicker than he could temper it, "I said no mages! How could you, after all Fenris has been through. And a _Tevinter_ -"

"You're welcome." The man cut Hawke off, moving to step around him, "By the way. 'Thank you for saving my life as well as my lover's life' is what you _should_ be saying, not what I would expect, but what you should be saying."

Hawke watched as the stranger stepped close to Fenris and knelt down in the snow looking him over with a sharp eye. Hawke edged himself closer to Fenris, livid that this strange mage had cast whatever it was that had Fenris like this. He _never_ wanted magic to violate Fenris again, not even like this, he could have handled it himself. He could have. The lie in the thought jabbed him like a knife in his side. He would be dead now if it hadn't been for this man, wouldn't he? Just like all that time ago when Anders had dragged his near-dead body from the Hanged Man. Or when Elias had saved him from the slavers. 

But just because it was true did not mean he had to be happy with it. And he was _not_ happy with this man getting this close to Fenris, looking over him as if he were nothing more than an interesting curio. 

"Hawke you need a healer." The wince in Varric's voice was audible from behind Hawke. "Urgently. I'm pretty sure that is raw red lyrium along your wound."

Hawke opened his mouth to answer just as the stranger reached a hand out towards Fenris' face. "Don't touch him!" He shouted, swiping an arm to intercept the contact.

The man threw his hands up with a wide-eyed expression of pure annoyance, " _Please_. If I had not rapped you on the head a moment ago it’s very likely your friend here would be dead, if not worse. Do you know anything about these collars? Anything about what the Venatori enchant them with? Hmm?"

"Do not touch him." Hawke grunted out each word, the pain in his torso mounting as his adrenaline faded. 

Varric gripped at his shoulder, squeezing, "Hawke, I wouldn't have asked Dorian to help if he was out to get Fenris. Just let him do his thing."

"Ah, and here I thought you had actually forgotten my name and were just trying to cover it up." The man, Dorian, responded before meeting Hawke’s eyes. "But truly, these collars are designed for warrior slaves and usually that means they have a nasty enchantment of some sort. Keeps the other side from 'stealing' them away. You slip a pick in that lock and -"

Dorian opened his fists in an exploding motion on either side of Fenris' head. Hawke felt his heart drop through his stomach. "Oh."

"Exactly." Dorian replied, looking down at Fenris and then giving Hawke a reassuring look before his hands glowed with magic and lowered down to the collar. The runes Hawke had spotted on the leather glowed in response and he felt his heart stop, terrified that the magic would trigger them. The red in Fenris' brands brightened slightly on his neck and face, blooming on his chest in response. Hawke wanted to trust Varric that Dorian meant well but panic fluttered in his chest. His hands shook and he wanted to reach out and pull Fenris into his arms and keep him safe.

"What's the diagnosis?" Varric was standing between them, looking extremely unsettled by the red gathering and lighting up inside of Fenris. 

Dorian shook his head, pursing his lips for a second as he waved his fingers around the leather. The light in a few of the runes faded away while a few others remained bright. The red lyrium stayed lit, vibrant around where the magic had inspected the collar even as the white light left Dorian's hands and he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

"It won't kill him." He answered thoughtfully, dragging out the seconds until he finished the thought. "But I left some of the enchantments intact. These-" He indicated the runes that had stayed lit, that were now fading back into the collar, "-I left. As much as you will hate to hear it, I believe it’s in all our best interest to keep it on him, it prevents him from using the lyrium to phase through solid matter. So, until you know he won't break out from the dungeon to kill the Inquisitor and all of us in our sleep, I would suggest leaving it be."

Right. The dungeon. Hawke had almost forgot. He dropped his gaze down to Fenris again, the peaceful and oblivious expression upon his face, strands of white hair wet from snow and stuck to his forehead. The red continued to glow in his skin, unfamiliar and threatening. He was _dangerous_. He had nearly killed Hawke. Everyone around Hawke had tried to warn him, and were now continuing to try to protect him from Fenris. And it was fair, he understood and had experienced why. His ribs still ached and his back had stopped bleeding but- Fenris was a threat. And if there was anything of him left deep inside then Hawke would need to make these decisions, so that one day Fenris could be free again.

He nodded solemnly, bending slightly as he measured the pain in his side to see if he could carry Fenris. Varric stopped him with a palm to his chest, "Don't... touch him, not yet. He's full of that lyrium just wait-"

Before Hawke could protest Dorian nodded quickly in agreement, "I'm not done yet, once I am we can move onto how to get him back to Skyhold."

Dorian's hands lit again, this time passing down over Fenris' head and his torso in long purposeful waves in the air. Hawke watched as the red lit vibrantly in response, the heat increasing ‘til it felt like they were huddled around a small fire and not the sleeping body of an elf. Varric stepped back, a small grumble escaping him. Dorian's mouth twisted into a sort of frustrated annoyance before he sighed and pulled his hands away.

"It won't spread." He said, blinking his eyes open to narrow them at the angry markings. "They are well contained. I can't say it's _safe_ by any measure, but it won't spread through him or out of him so you should be safe to touch him-"

Hawke touched Fenris. He laid his fingers against Fenris' bare arm where it laid in the melting snow. His skin was soft, warm as if he were sick with fever. Instantly Hawke could think of nothing else but splaying his fingers around his arm, caressing his face, scooping him up out of the snow and pressing himself close to his cradled head. But he couldn't. He couldn't.

Dorian and Varric exchanged a look as Hawke wiped at his eye with his empty hand, smearing blood under it. Dorian shifted and brought his hands to either side of Fenris' temples and instantly Hawke found himself kneeling forward, his hand moving from Fenris' arm up to where his hair laid lank in the snow. He wanted to touch his face so badly, to put himself between Fenris and Dorian's magical prying hands like a wedge. But he said nothing and any words of protest that might have bubbled to the surface died long before they reached him.

Dorian paused at Hawke's movement for a second, then continued. His hands lit up again, this time with a deep, flickering blue light. It sparked in his hands like liquid lightning before becoming softer and lighter, more akin to water. The magic trembled and danced in Dorian's palms, never leaving them although Hawke could feel a prickle of magic around him. The red marks on Fenris' forehead brightened, glowing furiously as Dorian squeezed his eyes shut and sweat began to beat on his face. 

After a long, heavy moment, Dorian closed his hands and snuffed out the spell. He sat back on his ankles with a long, shuddering sigh, shaking out his hands as he slowly blinked his eyes open and looked at Hawke.

"I hate being the barer of bad news." He said softly. Hawke looked away, back down at Fenris as the marks on his forehead slipped back to a dull glow. "This isn't my area of expertise but... that being said, I am aware of how some Magisters use blood magic. Sometimes it’s simple and easy to undo but other times..."

Hawke blinked. Fenris looked so small now. Weak, if he didn't know better. The softness and vulnerability that Fenris had entrusted to Hawke out of reach, nothing more than a memory, the sleep he was in merely a spell. An illusion. And Hawke was entirely helpless to do anything. He could pick Fenris up and carry him far away from the Venatori, from Danarius, but he could not undo everything they had done to him.

"I was afraid of that." Varric answered Dorian when Hawke did not respond. 

"Magic won't solve this problem." Dorian said to Varric, leaving Hawke to stare at Fenris in silence. "The work is extensive, and with the red lyrium it is even more impossible for a mage to plunge in to try to snip away the bad. However, there is a sort of wall built up inside of him, around a solid knot of memories. It's all there just, out of reach."

Hawke slipped his arms under Fenris carefully, under the thick leather collar and down under his knees. Fenris was warm against him, too hot for how cold everything around them was. Hawke’s ribs were aching and the dull shock of his wounds was slowly reaching him but Hawke did not care. He tested Fenris' weight, he was lighter than Hawke expected, gathered up in his arms limply. 

Varric and Dorian moved as Hawke found his feet and slowly rose with Fenris in his arms. Both of them had their hands out, ready to steady or catch Hawke. He wavered only slightly, willing his ribs and his back to cooperate. Dorian touched his arm lightly before he turned, looking him in the eye with an expression Hawke did not have energy to read.

" _For now_." He said. "It’s all still in there."

-

The Inquisition forces had won their battle against the Venatori while Hawke had slowly gathered Fenris into his arms. By the time he and his companions returned, the battlefield was a quiet yard of mud and blood, fallen and eviscerated warrior slaves left in the slush as the field medics and mages pulled their injured from the ground. The soldiers had pushed on into the fortress but all remained quiet. Later Hawke would hear that the high-ranking Venatori had retreated and escaped out of a secondary entrance. They recovered a few elvhen slaves who resisted them, who could not understand their Common tongue. They also found a few prisoners from a neighboring village but many had already been slain with their throats slit, their bodies dry and bloodless. 

Danarius was not inside the fortress. He had escaped.

Hawke followed Varric and Dorian away from the battlefield, throwing his cloak over Fenris so that none of the inquisition forces would recognize the glowing red assassin in his arms. The Inquisitor met them at the Inquisition's camp, exhausted and with a vaguely haunted expression. His breath caught when he spotted the covered bundle in Hawke's arms, his ears pinning when he noticed Varric helping Hawke stay upright.

"Is he safe?" Inquisitor Sabrae asked, his voice hushed so to not attract any attention from the officers and medics rushing about the camp. 

Hawke had no words left. The exhaustion from his wounds and from the battle were catching up quickly and he knew once he put Fenris down where he would be safe that nothing would stop him from collapsing. 

"As much as he can be." Varric answered with a strained smile, one that Sabrae seemed to understand as much as Hawke. "Sparkler put him to sleep."

Sabrae nodded and Hawke frowned as he realized that they had all conspired this plan behind his back. Regardless of the looks of sympathy they gave Hawke it was clear they were more concerned that Fenris was some wild monster. The worst part was that they were not wrong. But this wasn't Fenris, it wasn't him, he had been hurt and he was there deep inside somewhere. Hawke had no choice but to believe that. 

They led Hawke to a covered wagon on the edge of the camp, folding back the thick canvas and helping Hawke step up with Fenris still carefully cradled in his arms. The wagon was full of storage, medical supplies and food and other goods packed away in crates. At the very back the crates gave way to a hidden section, tight and small but already set up with bedrolls between the crates and the front of the wagon. Hawke slowly dropped to his knees and laid Fenris' limp body on the bedroll. His head lolled softly before settling against the wool blankets, hair fanning against them as his lyrium glowed like a dying fire. 

Sabrae looked over Hawke's shoulder, clearing his throat before his voice wavered, "You need a healer Hawke. Dorian and I can stay here for now."

Hawke had to be pulled away, Varric's broad hands guiding his by his bicep, speaking in a soft low voice Hawke could barely register now. Everything around him was spinning, the ground rocking as he stumbled and then fell from the wagon. Varric grabbed at his armor and then his cloak but could not hold him, Hawke tumbling into the cold snow. Varric called out for a medic as he got Hawke's arm over his shoulder and hefted him upright. Not high enough to get Hawke to his feet. The ground was thick with snow, slippery and Hawke was too heavy to fight against gravity. 

Everything was dark. Sleep called him. The scar that knotted on his chest ached as much as his ribs and his back. The red lyrium fractured against him like shards of glass splintering and pushing into him. He was cold. A woman he did not know was crouched next to him, telling Varric to let him go and Hawke sunk into the snow. It melted and kissed his face and as he felt the familiar cool sensation of healing magic enter him he lost consciousness. 

He sunk deep and far into the earth. He sunk towards a deep dread in his core, down deep below this temporary relief. He had saved Fenris. He had held and touched the man he loved, the man he traveled the world searching for and nearly died to bring home. 

But the dread deep down was ready to catch him, to remind him that the battle was not over. That it might still have all been for nothing. Hawke just wanted to rest. He wanted to let go and wake up to sunlight and hope and happiness. He knew it was not possible and he was scared.

Hawke was so scared.

He woke up rocking in the back of the wagon, wrapped in blankets tucked between the crates and walls so tight he knocked his knee as he jerked awake. The pain had eased but the heavy drag of recovery and sleep pulled on him as he sat up. Soft sunlight illuminated the space, a slit in the canvas too bright for his eyes was letting in a thin cold wind. Fenris was laying across from him, exactly where Hawke had carefully placed him. Varric was sitting between them, in the space between the feet of their bedrolls, frowning into a leather ledger as he scratched away with his pen. 

The mending ribs in Hawke’s side spurred at him. He groaned as he reached and fanned his fingers on his back, feeling a wrapped bandage protecting the wound Fenris had sliced up his back. Varric looked at him over his ledger and smirked.

 

“And the Champion lives another day.” He announced, tucking the pen away with his papers and folding his fingers together. “How are you feeling?”

Hawke squinted at Varric as he rubbed at his mussed hair and the headache that hummed under the surface. He looked back to Fenris, still and limp except for the slow soft rise of his chest. 

“Is he okay?” Hawke’s voice was gravelly from sleep. How long had he been asleep? How long had Fenris been asleep, suspended and imprisoned within himself. 

“That’s about what I expected.” Varric mumbled quietly to himself. He turned to match Hawke’s gaze, “He’ll be alright. Sparkler said he shouldn’t wake up until we reach Skyhold, he’ll come out of it slowly so we have enough time.”

Hawke blinked and thought what Fenris would think about this, about forcing him into unconsciousness to drag his body into the Frostbacks. 

“Oh,” He answered after a moment, blinking around the wagon again to try and gather his bearings. “Dorian. He and Sabrae were keeping an eye on him.”

Varric nodded, unfazed by how slowly Hawke was needing to put it all together. “That was the night before last. They left the caravan yesterday, more Inquisition business, demons and ancient magisters to kill. Got you patched up and the healers said not to wake you prematurely.”

“I’m fine.” Hawke cut off the conversation, reaching for the lip of a wooden crate and pulling himself to his feet. It was hard to balance as the wagon shook and swayed, hard to stand with the pain in his side and back springing back to life. 

“Uh-huh.” Varric said, unconvinced. “They pulled red lyrium out of your back Hawke. They got it out before it infected your blood. Keeper already sent ahead instructions to the Skyhold healers, you’re going to need rest and care to make sure that stuff didn’t do anything to you.”

“I’m fine.” Hawke repeated. He was not fine. He wanted to move closer to Fenris, but the rocking of the wagon already had him dizzy. He was more likely to step or fall onto Fenris than anything, and Varric was giving him a look. Hawke stretched a bit for show, gritting his teeth beneath closed lips as he settled back down on the bed roll. “I don’t need them to fuss over me. I just want to-”

He stopped, unsure how to finish that sentence. Varric watched him with a stiff smile, waiting for him to finish. Hawke pulled up the wool blanket from the bedroll and wrapped it around his shoulders, looking away to Fenris again. “...Fix things.”

Varric’s stiff smile faded, “You know Hawke. It’s remarkable we even got this far. The fact the two of you are both here and _alive_ is amazing, I was pretty convinced it would never happen. But I would try to not…”

Varric trailed off as Hawke met his eyes, he swallowed thickly and picked his ledger back up to busy his eyes with. 

“...Get your hopes up.” He finished quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving into a entirely new phase for this fic! Ahh!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck by me and left comments/bookmarks/kudos <3 <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, finally.
> 
> As always thanks for all the support, comments, kudos and bookmarks <3 Love you all!

Fenris woke in an unfamiliar place.

He scrambled to his feet, his joints sore and stiff. Cold stone was laid bare under his feet, stone walls surrounding him. It was dark, only the smallest amount of light reaching him. He turned and his hands met cold bars.

A dungeon cell. He had been caught. His breath quickened and his heart raced. He felt the bars up and down in the dim light, confirming that he was trapped. The lyrium inside hummed, despite being lulled by the cold, turning the stone cell red. The back wall had a crack in it, a whistling cold wind rushing into the small space. Fenris pushed himself against it and it was wide enough to see freezing and steep cliffs that stretched on forever. Covered in more snow and more treacherous than the mountains he had crossed with the Venatori. He was far from their fortress. Even if he managed to tear apart the stone or cut down the iron bars he would have no way of knowing where he was. He would have no way to return.

The red flourished at the thought, like kindling on a fire, it lit and burned and hissed. Not as powerful as before, but still it sneered and told him _“You’re far from your Master. Just like before. You’ve been caught and stolen again. Your Master saved and fixed you and now you will have yourself undone_ again. _He will be so disappointed in you._ ”

The thoughts spun and scattered before Fenris could try to temper them. The fear swelled under his skin and the lyrium burned despite the chill. His hands traced along the stone walls, cold under his hands, rough and unyielding. He pressed himself against the bars, looking out to an empty hall and a reinforced door. No guard. No other prisoners nearby. He was in isolation, or some sort of conditioning or interrogation cell. Had his Master been taken prisoner? Had any of the Venatori been taken or was it just him? Did they take him for his value, for the red lyrium soldered into his markings to study or take apart? Was it punishment for killing the queen or-

The man with the red arrows. A shiver ran down Fenris’ spine and he remembered the battle in a sudden flood. The battle outside of the fortress, the lesser slaves slain in the snow and their blood fed to demons in exchange for their service. The other Venatori had demanded Danarius to send him out, to leave his side and push the Inquisition back so they could escape. He remembered the melted red snow under his feet, the red-tailed arrows and _him_.

The man from his nightmares. He had appeared and called Fenris’ name. Confirming every fractured memory and terror he had collected from those forgotten and shameful years he was stolen from his Master. Fenris should not have left that battlefield, he should not have chased the man but the red inside of him had screeched and burned his insides with every drop of fear and rage that had been building inside of him. He wanted the man dead, so that he would leave Fenris’ nightmares for good, so that that Fenris could atone for the years and the damage that had been taken. 

Fenris had almost had him, but when the barrier blocked them something strange prickled in the depths of his mind. His heart had _ached_ staring into the man’s eyes, past that red war paint and the layers of his own terror. The man looked vulnerable and weak kneeling before Fenris. Something soft and strange in his eyes. It pulled on something deep inside of Fenris, deeper than the fear and the lyrium and the shattered memory. Something Fenris could not identify. 

The image stayed in Fenris’ mind without fracturing or piercing him, unlike every memory he had of the man and his red-smeared face. It was almost steady, shining and new in his mind’s eye. The man riling terror and pain up from where Fenris had shoved it all away, but something about the memory almost felt peaceful. He wasn’t as scared of this tormenter as he should be. The thought itself chilled him, made him wonder how deeply and thoroughly this stranger had brainwashed and tortured him into something for the qunari.

Fenris looked around the cell again, noticed the chains that hung on the walls, none of them tethering his hands or ankles. His collar had remained in place snug around his neck, but had no restraints to leash him. Why would this Inquisition go to the trouble of stealing him without even attempting to chain him? Did they not know how dangerous he was? Did they not understand the loyalty and the Master’s pride he had pumping through his veins? Or was it this man from the qunari had some illusion of control, after all these years? It felt foolish or stupid. Unless it was some sort of trick.

A key entered a lock in the far door and Fenris stilled, ears perked to the sound. They were coming. He called the lyrium to him, the red rolling thickly in the cold brands and lighting up the entire cell. He could kill them, he could cut down the bars and bolt. He had to return, he had to escape before the man came for him and stripped his insides of all that was good and loyal to his Master.

The door opened and a green glistening wall materialized between it and the cell. Fenris tensed, the red lyrium crackling into a bent scythe from his arms, too late. It was the same magical barrier that had stopped him from finishing off his tormenter, he had no chance to shatter it and maintain an upper hand.

An elf peered from around the half-open door, long ears perking at the sight of Fenris. Fenris felt his anxiety subside by a degree. Where they sending some slave to try and appeal kinship to him? To keep him docile and calm? They were mistaken by what kind of elf Fenris was. The elf stepped confidently from the doorway, shorter than Fenris and dressed in thick winter furs and green robes. The light of the barrier caught on vallaslin and Fenris sneered. Viddathari, or just a simple savage elf. He would receive nothing from Fenris.

The elf stood on the other side of the barrier, a sparking hand steadying and maintaining it as he tried to search Fenris’ eyes. A dwarf followed at a distance, beardless and watching him strangely. Something about his face sparked a light in Fenris’ mind, some long-forgotten lyrium smuggler or merchant guild contact his Master had perhaps. He paid it no mind, instead returning the elf’s eyes with a glare.

The red lyrium crackled and brightened, flashing red against the dim walls. The dwarf flinched but the elf did no such thing. He kept his eyes met with Fenris’, too soft to be displaying dominance or mastery, but stronger than any elf had any business doing. 

“Fenris.” The elf said.

“ _Knife-eared rat._ ” Fenris hissed in Tevene. The elf did not react, probably did not speak it.

“No one here is going to hurt you.” The elf said calmly, evenly. As if Fenris was not standing before him soldered with red lyrium that was burning and glowing and raising from his brands. “I am the Inquisitor and my word is rule within this keep. No harm will come to you. If you choose to harm anyone, measures will be taken, but this is _your choice_. You will be imprisoned until we decide it is no longer necessary.”

“You’re ok elf.” The dwarf threw out, his voice tickling something in the back of Fenris’ head. “You can put that uh, that thing back. That red shit.”

“ _I would rather pull out your spines._ ” Fenris responded in Tevene. The red hummed but had simmered down. He was not in immediate danger, so they said, but Fenris would not give them an inch of his trust.

“We know you speak Common.” The dwarf said with a sigh. 

“You’re safe Fenris.” The elf, the ‘Inquisitor’, stressed the words as he spoke. He looked troubled, as if he really wanted to convince Fenris of this supposed safety for his own good. This couldn’t be the Inquisitor the mages and magisters from the Venatori had been frightened of. It must all be a lie. “We are going to try and help you.”

Fenris paused, felt the red lyrium edging off slowly as the cold settled it. He sneered at the ‘Inquisitor’, “Help me?” 

The two strangers paused, blinking as if Fenris were a bright light. The dwarf raised a brow and answered, “Yeah. We’re going to help you Fenris. You need a lot of it.”

Fenris frowned at the dwarf. He was confused, he did not understand the game they were playing with him. They wanted _something_ , that much was clear. If they had only wanted him dead it would have been done by now. The mages in the Venatori had been frightened of this Inquisitor, who turned out to be nothing more than a skinny savage elf, but they had never said anything about the Inquisition being in league with the Qunari. But Fenris had _seen_ the man with the red war paint, the one he knew had a hand in his torture and imprisonment. It all had to be connected. 

They wanted him. Didn’t they? Wanted to turn him against his Master and use him themselves. Like the qunari had, like the mages in the Venatori wanted. Fenris could not let them have him. 

“I need no help.” Fenris staggered his Common, feigning difficulty with the language. 

The elf’s face fell, a disappointment in his eyes. “Then…” His voice was small, it was not the voice of a leader of men, Fenris almost laughed. “Then help us. I don’t want any harm to come to you here, and I do not intend to have you do anything against your will. We cannot let you walk free, but we can make you comfortable and give you everything you need. Just, please, don’t hurt anyone and we can help.”

Fenris wondered why they were not afraid of him. The elf’s words seemed to show they were frightened of his abilities and the dwarf refused to come closer, but there was no fear in their gazes and their voices. They had nothing more to say and they left. The dwarf looked back to him, something far away in his eyes before he closed and locked the door.

Fenris was alone with the echoes of their words as the magical barrier faded and the red retreated and sleep in Fenris’ body. _“We are going to try and help you”_. Fenris thought to the cruel slave drivers who dealt with the disloyal slaves, who helped to bring them back to heel, back to honor and and what little respect a slave could aspire. The whips and chains and hot coals. He remembered with a flinch how broken and starved he was when he awoke to his Master after years, the lines across his back and the ribs shifting under his skin from the treatment the Qunari had given him. He wondered what ‘help’ they had for him now.

A few hours passed as Fenris paced the small cell. He watched the light from the winter outside change to a pinkish glow. The space darkened, barely lit by the sunset or his brands, relaxed by the cold. Fenris wondered how long he could last here. If he would have to wait ‘til the Venatori won their war and took the keep. If he would need to slip through the bars and walls and brave the frozen wilderness alone to find his Master. He wondered if his captors would give up and decide to harvest the lyrium from his body instead. 

He tested the bars with a small blade of lyrium from his fingers. They scrapped the surface, chipping off rust and age to reveal dark black metal underneath. It would not be pierced by the lyrium, too strong, or perhaps warded against magical means. The bars could not be cut down. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t slip through the stone walls, even if it meant he would tumble into stone and ice down the peaks. He could survive. 

But it was a risk, and it was too early to take that large of a risk. He was safe, for now, his captors had said no one would harm him. He could sit tight until they changed their minds, see what information he could bring back. At least that way he wouldn’t return empty-handed to his Master. It was just as well, his body felt stiff and he was tired. He did not know how they had dragged him from the battlefield to this place, but whatever it was had left him feeling hollow and his lyrium stunted. 

Fenris sat as the light faded. Back against the wall, facing the door. Something about it felt intimately familiar. Stone against his back, time slipping past him as he waited with a dread knotting in his stomach. He had done this before, hadn’t he? Some time before his Master saved him. They must have done this to him. Made him wait for whatever torments they sharpened behind the door. But Fenris found that he was not scared, he had survived this once, he could do it again.

It was dark when Fenris heard a turn of a key. The red inside of him shifted thickly, the light dimly illuminating the hall as Fenris leapt to his feet. The door opened, someone was holding a lantern that was too bright and Fenris had to blink against it as his eyes adjusted. The light entered the space, chasing all the shadows away as Fenris saw the man who carried the light.

It was _him_.

Fenris pulled himself into air, lyrium ripping him from the reality of the cold cell and the man from his nightmares. The red swelled and heated inside of him as he turned on his heel and ran at the stone wall. His chest, arms and legs phased through, the freezing dark of the peaks beyond striking him even in the space between reality and fade. His neck snagged on the stone like a hand tightening around his throat. His chest and neck twisting where the stone stood impartial to his phased form. His hands pulled at his neck and his head, scrambling to try and clear the barrier but he was bound by the collar. Enchanted so he couldn’t escape the chains of the Venatori camps. He had forgotten. He struggled more, throwing all his strength against it and willing himself to fall past stone down to the snow and sleet yards beneath him. If he unphased like this the stone would crush his throat. He would die. 

Fenris gripped at the cold flagstone of the ground, pulling himself back into the cell as he unphased. He panted and gasped on all fours, pathetic, choking on fear and imprisonment. He pushed himself up, glared at the man on the other side of the bars, enraged that he had seen him weak and _scared_. 

The man from his nightmares was flesh and blood before him, taller and broader than him and dressed in unassuming and casual garb, unarmed. The red war paint across the bridge of his nose was faded, his beard recently trimmed with a few threads of silver within it. The details that had been muddled in the fragments of Fenris’ memory were stark and were somehow distressingly familiar. The man said nothing, his wide eyes watching with an expression Fenris did not understand. 

Fenris stepped away, his heart racing, and pressed his back against the wall. He considered trying to pierce the man through the bars with his lyrium, of lighting himself and baring his sharp teeth. He remembered the warmth of the man’s blood against his lyrium blade, telling Fenris that he was real, that the nightmare could be put down like any dog. But he was trapped, cornered, and the Inquisitor elf had told him not to hurt anyone unless he would be harmed, didn't he? Fenris had to bare it, had to take the man’s presence as his mind struggled to scramble into black dullness. 

The dwarf from before was back, Fenris hadn’t noticed him enter, he cleared his throat and shouldered the man’s side. The man did not speak, lip shaking as he stared Fenris down with wide haunted eyes. Fenris felt his skin crawl, his mind reminding him of the dreams where the man’s fingers had fanned against his flesh.

The dwarf shook his head and unfolded a piece of parchment, “Uh, well,” He said, speaking for the one who would not, “ There’s a few things we need to get out of the way first…”

 _First_? Before what?

The dwarf squinted at the paper, his mouth twisting in distaste, “You’re uh, you’re not going to answer these. And you don’t have to.” The dwarf made eye contact then quickly looked back down, “ _‘Do you know anything about what the Venatori are planning, where they might be going or where they may be operating.’_ You’re… not going to answer that. And uh,” The dwarf folded back the paper to look at a following parchment folded against it, “You’re not going to answer any of these either.”

Fenris watched the dwarf fold the parchment and slip it inside of his coat with a defeated shrug. He was right, Fenris would tell them nothing, but he did not understand the dwarf’s demeanor. Nor did he trust his act. Fenris looked back to the man, watching as he took a step back and sat himself upon the ground. 

There was a long pause where nothing was said and no one moved. The man kept his eyes locked on Fenris’, his breathing laboured in a strange way. The dwarf looked at both of them in turn, waiting, until he nudged the man’s shoulder.

“Hawke…”

Fenris flinched. _Hawke_. The word stung. It cut deep past the layers into the place where he was broken and bare under the layers and walls he had erected between himself and his shameful past. The absence. It pierced and vanished, bleeding Fenris deep inside. He was flooded with an unnamed dread, one that tangled with the name, tangling like snakes in a nest. The red slumbered deep inside, sated by the cold, but Fenris could feel it like a beast opening a single eye in its sleep.

“Someone has to say _something_.” The dwarf winced. 

The man, Hawke, looked almost pleadingly at the dwarf before he released a held in breath and turned back to Fenris. 

“Do you… remember me?” His voice was quiet in the room, too small for the words he spoke. It did not match the anxiety and dread Fenris felt, did not match the expectations he had, and yet… and yet...

Fenris mulled the words on tongue before he whispered, “Maraas kata.” The Qun-lat felt dusty on his lips, dry and distant. Too long since he had been tutored for the Seheron tour. 

Hawke and the dwarf looked at each other, seemingly confused before the dwarf groaned, “Qun-lat. I forgot he spoke that…”

The man, Hawke, looked back to Fenris, perplexed. As if he didn’t speak qun-lat himself, as if he wasn’t some Viddathari converter and torturer. As if he hadn’t captured Fenris and tried to shred him of everything he was. “Fenris, please, just tell me if you remember me at _all_.”

The thickness deep in Fenris’ chest tightened and twisted as the red within his brands woke and stretched lazily, vibrant in the dark room. The heat pulsed in the cold, weaker than it usually was, but still burning and hissing where it touched Fenris. Hawke was toying with him, trying to trick him, and Fenris would not allow it to go on. He longed to tear through the bars and into the man’s flesh and feel the bones crack in his hands. To bleed and break the man until he could speak no more, until he could not follow Fenris in dreams and on foot. To end it all, even if it seemed like the torment would never end.

“ _What do you want from me?_ ” Fenris growled in Tevene, barring sharpened canines as the red lit him up.

The dwarf stumbled back but Hawke did not move. He looked as he had when he and Fenris had been separated between the magic barrier out at the battlefield. Lost, broken, and impossibly weak. It enraged Fenris. It made no sense. Everything he displayed at odds with Fenris had been told, from what his memory had screeched and cut Fenris with as his image arose in his mind. 

Hawke seemed to take a moment to piece Fenris’ words together. He opened his hands as his face struggled against what looked like despair. He rubbed his face instead of answering, like a man who had not slept in weeks. Fenris thought of the dirty beggars of Minrathous, too proud and useless to rescue themselves with slavery, crouching broken in the alley ways mumbling without teeth. Men who were days from being nothing but ghosts. How had Fenris ever been scared of this man? How was he still terrified of his answer?

“ _I just…_ ” Hawke’s Tevene was slow, his southerner accent more apparent than before. “ _Wanted to see you. Make you safe._ ”

Fenris lashed out, lyrium materializing into a thick blade along his arm before he met the metal bars. Sparks flew off the metal, bring and angry before fading. Hawke had flinched, but he did not move, did not break eye contact.

“Liar.” Fenris hissed. 

“I’m not.” Hawke’s voice broke. “I’ve spent _years_ trying to find you, trying to rescue you.”

The red was scalding inside of Fenris. Burning. Molten in his limbs as he shook. “ _Liar_. This is not a rescue. This is _theft_. All these years you have been waiting to steal me from my Master again.”

Hawke looked as if he had been struck. As if Fenris had managed to cut through the bars and slice his stomach open and bleeding on the flagstones. The dwarf merely frowned, hiding his mouth behind a fist.

“Again?” The dwarf asked.

Fenris looked down at the dwarf and for the first time realized that the dwarf looked different when he was next to Hawke. Familiar. Qunari as well then? Fenris didn’t know they converted dwarves. 

“I am not as weak I was before.” Fenris spat. “You will not break me. I will not be converted.”

Hawke blinked. He and the dwarf turned to each other with stunned expressions. Fenris felt the red within him wane, unsure suddenly. They had not responded to his Qun-lat, and now they seemed surprised. It must be a trick. Perhaps they had fed him potions that muddled his mind, damaged him so that he would not remember or know what happened to him. His memory was foggy, damaged, so that might have been the case. 

“Wait.” The dwarf turned back to Fenris, confusion apparent in the frowning lines of his face. “‘Convert’? Convert to what?”

They were trying to confuse him, to break him down and question himself and Fenris hated it. “I will not be swayed by your tricks dwarf. You will gain nothing from me and once I am reunited with my Master I will collect your skulls for his display.”

The dwarf rose an eyebrow and turned back to Hawke, who still seemed shell-shocked. Neither of them responded how Fenris expected them to. 

“Do you…” The dwarf frowned, squinting at Fenris as if he were a puzzle. “You _don’t_ remember do you? Hawke didn’t steal you and no one tried to ‘convert’ you. Do you remember me at all? Kirkwall? Anything?”

Panic fluttered in Fenris’ chest, trapped between the rage that thumped in his brands and the cold dread he could not shake. It was a trick. It was all a trick and if he could just force his way through the lies he would be rewarded when he returned to his Master’s side. 

“Fenris…” Hawke whispered, a violent shudder ran down Fenris’ spine. “What _do_ you remember?”

Sweat between his skin and his armor in Seheron. Sand between his toes as he followed his Master into the jungles. The smell of distant gaatlok. Wet flagstones under his feet as an ocean storm railed against ancient stone walls. Rainwater dripping through a repaired roof. Flames against a dark sky as horned men with war paint shouting war cries. A decorated qunari glowering down at _Hawke_. Both of them soaked in blood. A saarebas lead by Hawke. Hawke standing over him in the dark. Fenris waking to his Master’s hand in his hair, his back laced with flogging wounds from the Qunari. 

“I have spent years trying to forget!” Fenris shouted, his head pounding, the red spiralling and feasting on his fear. Gorging so much it said nothing, simply burned under this skin. “All those years you stole from me! Torturing and starving me so I would join your Qun. I _will_ avenge for what you have done!”

Hawke scrambled to his feet, his shoulders square and his eyes intense. Fenris backed from the bars. This was it, this was when Hawke would reveal the nightmare that Fenris had spent years dreading. 

“No.” Hawke’s voice was strong now, full of conviction, his eyes piercing through the bars. “That _never_ happened Fenris. I would never hurt you. I couldn’t save you from Danarius that day and it’s haunted me-”

“ _How dare you._ ” Fenris slipped back into Tevene, hatred and fire burning against his ribs as his fists shook. “ _Strike your tongue for speaking my Master’s name. You are unworthy of it._ ”

“Fenris!” Hawke shouted, his face was red, his eyes watering in the dim light. “I would _never_ hurt you. The only person who has ever ‘stolen’ you was _him_. You were _free_ Fenris. You had freed yourself and you lived with us in Kirkwall as a free man! You were not- Did he tell you were kidnapped in Seheron, Fenris? Is that what he told you? You fled Seheron, you evaded his men for years before we met, he has been _lying_ to you!”

“Hawke, maybe you should slow down…” The dwarf pulled at Hawke’s tunic but was ignored.

“We want you to be _free_ Fenris.” Hawke had stepped up to the bars as he had shouted, as close as he could get to Fenris even as he retreated to the back of the cell. 

Fenris was shaking. He was terrified and he was exhausted. He would not succumb, he would not break. But the man was shouting nonsense to try and confuse him. Fairy tales that a disloyal and ungrateful slave might want to believe they could emulate, something they might dream of. Not him. He would never willingly leave his Master’s side. 

“You’re lying.” Fenris said flatly, his head was pounding harder than before. 

Hawke looked struck, again, as if what he had said was true and Fenris’ rejection had hurt something deep inside of him. Fenris watched him warily, suddenly aware of how tired he felt. 

The dwarf shook his head slowly and made a face, “Hawke, we should call it a night.”

Hawke did not step away from the bars, did not take his eyes away from Fenris, he was trembling. “What can I do for you Fenris?”

“You can leave.” Fenris answered.

“Hungry?” The dwarf offered, “Need a blanket or anything? We can get you anything you need, you’re only a prisoner as a formality really.”

Fenris did not know what that meant. He did not care. He would accept nothing, he would incur no debt and allow no favor. 

The dwarf nodded at the silence, tugging forcibly at Hawke’s arm. “I’ll get you something Fenris, don’t worry about it.”

Before Fenris could scoff and tell the dwarf he wouldn’t, the two were at the door. The dwarf was dragging and pushing Hawke through. The door closed and the key turned and Fenris collapsed against the wall, exhausted.

He nearly nodded off before he heard the key in the lock again, looking up to see the dwarf had returned alone. He nodded to Fenris, carried in a basket half the size of him, a blanket thrown over his shoulder barely concealing the small pack on his back. 

Thankfully the strange dwarf said nothing as he brought the things in. He placed the basket on the ground outside the bars and opened it, inside was a collection of foods. A skin of water, a bottle of what looked like ale or spiced wine, several paper-wrapped packages of breads and meats and a couple of apples. The dwarf pushed the basket against the bars, where Fenris could reach through.

“I’m sorry about Hawke.” The dwarf muttered. He pulled the blanket from his shoulder and tossed it so it fell against a horizontal bar and hung there. He took off his sack and sat down on the ground across from the cell. “He has had a rough couple of years. Life hasn’t been kind to him lately and it doesn’t leave him much space to call his own anymore.”

Fenris didn’t understand and he didn’t care. He was interested in the food but held back, unwilling to be lulled or swayed by it. He would wait until the dwarf was gone to eat. But he had sat down and was now pulling papers from his bag, a worn quill produced and dipped in an inkwell. 

“Are you here to try and interrogate me again?” Fenris asked.

The dwarf snorted, “I imagine it would go about as good as it did the first time.”

The dwarf scribbled on parchment, scratching what Fenris assumed was some sort of report. Paperwork. He was ignoring Fenris, and Fenris found this preferable, except for the confusion and mistrust that prowled through him.

“Why are you here?” Fenris tried.

The dwarf sighed, “Someone has to keep an eye on you.” He said it as if it was a chore, as if he was doing Fenris a favor. “Thought Hawke could use some alone time, and I also thought you’d prefer a familiar face to the unfriendly guards that usually sulk around down here.”

Fenris’ ears pinned. The dwarf _was_ familiar, but he still could not place him. He didn’t even have a name to put to his face. His oddly beardless face.

“What happened to your beard?” Fenris squinted at him through the bars.

The dwarf paused, a small smirk on his lips as his he had remembered a joke, “It fell on my chest.”

Fenris frowned. Why did _that_ seem familiar?

They sat in silence for an hour, the only sound in the room the scratching of the dwarf’s quill and the fluttering of parchment. Fenris was still thinking about the water and the apples and dried meats only a few feet away. He disliked how peaceful and oddly comfortable he felt. He tried to ignore it, to stay on guard, when the dwarf looked up again.

“You look bored.” The dwarf mused. 

Fenris said nothing. 

The dwarf dug in his pack, “I got just the thing to help with boredom.” He pulled a book from his pack, stood up from the ground and gingerly pushed it through the bars. 

The tome fell clumsily to the floor of the cell, bouncing on its spine and landing face down. Fenris crossed his arms and did not move as the dwarf sat back down.

“It’s one of my better ones,” The dwarf said, conversationally. As if Fenris would have a conversation with him. “Sold well. I might have edited it a bit better if I knew it would be as popular as it turned out to be. It might help you figure out some things.”

Fenris glowered at the dwarf, who did not look up from his papers. “Some Qunari book?”

The dwarf made a face at his paper as if it made an insulting joke at his expense, “No. There are some qunari _in_ it though I guess. Look for yourself.”

Fenris stood, took a step toward the basket, his hunger getting the better of him. He considered the use of poison and weighed it against the real threat of dehydration and starvation. He cautiously stepped closer, reached in and took the water skin and an apple. He kicked at the book on the ground as he went to the back of his cell, making it slide and bounce off one of the walls and tumble against the back wall.

“Already a critic.” The dwarf chuckled, looking up over his papers. “At least read some before you kick it around.”

Fenris bit into the apple, crisp and sweet. His stomach growled in response. “I cannot read dwarf.”

The dwarf rose his eyebrows at him, a sly smile spread slowly. “Have you… _tried_ recently?”

Fenris frowned. A trick? Or was the dwarf mocking him? Fenris grabbed at the book, already mad at himself for letting this get to him. For allowing himself to be goaded into this foolish game.

He turned the book over in his hands, the leather on it cheap and thin compared to the ancient and expensive tomes his Master would spent hours pouring over. Symbols he knew as common were printed into the leather and of course he-

He could read it.

The words on the cover spoke to him in his head. The symbols familiar if clumsy in his mind, the sounds they made singing in his mind as the words formed into language he knew. Understanding dawning from within, as if he had known how to read his entire life, even though he _knew_ he couldn’t read. He had never been taught. But there clear as day were the words _The Tale of the Champion_. 

Fenris’ heart was racing, his vision doubling as he fought for breath. Elation and confusion and fear all collided within as he read the words over and over. He didn’t notice the dwarf smiling from the other side of the bars, tickled by his own cleverness.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Im going to try and get back to updating on the semi-regular now that the story has reached a plateau that is mostly straight-forward. As always thank you for your continued readership, kudos, comments and bookmarks <3

It would take Fenris the better part of two days to read the first three pages of _The Tale Of The Champion_. The words were not difficult. Reading felt the same as picking up a physical discipline after time away, the muscles sore as they stretched, but the movements coming easier and easier as he pushed. More than the difficulty in seemingly _relearning_ reading was how overwhelming it was. 

When the dwarf - Varric, he later learned - had first given him the book he found each word heavy where it was printed on the crisp paper. “ _Calum Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, was born and raised in Lothering, Ferelden._ ” Fenris had closed his eyes as they burned. Slaves are not taught to read. It is forbidden for any in Danarius’ estate to learn or know. Fenris is not kept for his scholarly abilities. What would a elvhen slave like him know? What benefit would it be to have a warrior slave that could read? What could he possibly gain from partaking in an act that is forbidden by his Master?

Fenris did not know how to read. He had never been taught. It never bothered him. It never occurred to him it was something he could do. And yet, “ _He was the eldest in his family to a set of twins, Bethany and Carver, the three of them grew up in the rural farmland south of the Free Marches._ ” When had he learned to read? Who would have taught him? And for what reason?

Varric and Hawke had kidnapped him in Seheron, they had starved and tormented him for years. He knew this. But why would they have taught him how to read, especially Common? And why would there be a book written about this ‘Hawke’, why did the dwarf write a book about him at all? It was an elaborate ruse. A trick that seemed to be more effort than he imagined he was worth to the Qunari. 

“How is it?” Varric had asked, before he was about to leave that first night. 

Fenris had only gotten to the second paragraph by that time, leaving the book open in his hands as he squinted between the bars at the dwarf. “Why are you doing this.”

“Doing what?”

Fenris hesitated, there was too much to question and too much for him to lose if he spoke. “The book.”

“Oh, well,” The dwarf shrugged as he picked up his bag, “I don’t always have the best judgement, but the book is a bestseller so I must have done something right.”

The answer was confusing, giving Fenris nothing but more questions. The dwarf was good at that. Fenris could not imagine that the book existed for any other reason that to make him question everything he knew, everything his Master had told him. Posing his captor as some sort of hero in some southern land instead of the Viddathari converter Fenris _knew_ he was. Maybe the book was about a different ‘Hawke’? 

Varric left and for a few hours Fenris was alone. He took the time to lay down and try to sleep. There was no point in keeping himself awake, he needed to keep himself as healthy as possible for when he could escape. 

In dreams the slumbering red lyrium colored his memories. The red burning the edges as Fenris dreamt of rough wooden tables, the points of his gauntlets scraping along the grains. The dwarf was at the table, rings of water left on the surface from his tankard. The red crystallized on the walls around them, crackling like ice, growing over half-dreamed forms of others in the tavern. Blood oozed along the floor. Shouts came from somewhere behind Fenris but he could not understand. He was alone suddenly, the red enveloping the scene around him until there was nothing but searing heat and darkness. A song beat in his head, the lyrium bearing its teeth and his Master’s voice came from its mouth. 

“ _Broken_ ”

Fenris jolted awake as the door opened. Hawke paused when he noticed Fenris, swallowing hard before stepping in and shutting the door. He was alone and Fenris’ heart beat faster, the last time they were alone was when they had fought that night outside of the Venatori fortress. Fenris had won that fight, but now the odds were stacked against him. If the man wanted to kill him it would not be hard.

Hawke had brought a stool and he sat on it so his back was against the wall. There were bags under his eyes, looking as if he had gotten less sleep than Fenris. His hair was pushed back from his forehead messily. His hands were folded in his lap, calloused and bruised. Calum Hawke, ‘Champion of Kirkwall’. Fenris still thought it was unlikely.

The man said nothing, did nothing, but Fenris kept his chin up. Watching and ready. After a few silent moments Hawke’s gaze wandered from Fenris and then widened when he saw the book closed at Fenris’ side. His breath stopped, stilled. He hadn’t know Varric gave Fenris the book, or perhaps he was just that good at deception. 

“Varric…” Hawke said with a small groan, closing his eyes with a pained expression. 

His eyes remained closed. Fenris straightened and narrowed his eyes, “‘Champion of Kirkwall?’” Fenris made sure his opinion was clear in his tone, “You expect me to believe these lies?”

Hawke was silent for a second then flinched as he opened his eyes, looking more distressed than he had any reason to be, “Oh, oh Maker, how far are you? Please don’t tell me-”

“I cannot read.” Fenris said flatly, watching as Hawke blinked and then shifted uncomfortably. “My Master did not teach me. Slaves are not taught how to read.”

Hawke crossed his arms, “Right.”

Fenris waited for an explanation. For Hawke to counter him and explain why and how. He did not want to be led to ask, or to appeal to him in any way. But the silence was more confusing, more infuriating. Fenris picked up the book and began reading again.

The printed words described a picture Fenris built in his mind. The rolling hills and distant mountainous cliffs of Ferelden. Fenris knew them from the apple orchards and the Dog Manor and the lands around Denerim. Those places that felt familiar, as if from a dream, or a story. He refused to believe it would be _this_ story. Had this fabricated lie always been the story this human Viddathari told? Was this his life before he joined the savage oxmen? 

Fenris slammed the book closed and Hawke jumped, “Tell me why.”

“What?” Hawke’s eyebrows pitched, innocent.

“I _could not_ read.” Fenris tossed the book, letting it land on the ground with a loud thump. “Why can I now?”

Hawke hesitated, twisting his fingers in his lap, “You wanted to learn.” Fenris’ heart thumped in his head, “I gave you a book and you admitted you couldn’t read. I had my suspicions before, and I offered to teach you.”

It was a lie. Fenris had no memory of this. Nothing in the swirling dark murk of his brain included reading or any sort of exchange like Hawke was describing. Hawke spoke about it with a distant fondness, a happy memory, and it turned Fenris’ stomach.

“You did that with all your prisoners?” Fenris asked. 

Hawke looked him in the eye, something far away and hurt in his expression. “You weren’t a prisoner, Fenris.”

Fenris stood, the heat filling back into his brands. The red lit the cell up and Hawke leaned farther back against the wall. 

“Stop lying to me.” Fenris growled, unable to shake the feeling of being an animal pacing in a cage. He Wished the lyrium would fully awake from its chilled slumber and push him with the teeth and claws he needed to fight through this.

“I haven’t lied.” Hawke whispered.

They didn’t speak again that night. Fenris spent the time pacing the cell, touching the stone and bars looking for weaknesses he could exploit. He considered how difficult it would be to carve away at the stone wall, how long it would take him to chip away at the slit of a window until he could squeeze through. What his captors would do if they caught him. Their facade would most likely crumble, they would chain him and beat him for breaking the rules, the proper conversion would start.

It almost seemed preferable to these mind games. But if they did that, there was the possibility they would starve and damage him so he could not escape. Or else he would go back to his Master skinny and flogged _again_. Fenris had to be smarter and he had to be stronger than last time. 

Frustrated, Fenris sat back down and opened the book. Hawke stiffened when he did, seeming fearful of what Fenris might find in the pages. Whether it was deception of not, Fenris decided he prefered Hawke like that.

Fenris read about darkspawn. He read about Hawke’s village burning to the ground. About his brother dying. He shook the familiar feeling it brought him. There were many stories like this, weren’t there? Every hero had some impossible beginning, where everything was lost and they rose from nothing. Fairy tales. But Fenris couldn’t remember any tales it specifically reminded him of. He didn’t remember being told any as a child. So why did this feel familiar?

Eventually Hawke stood and left, once the first rays of sunlight came through the cracked wall. Fenris could hear the murmur of a conversation behind the door, some sort of argument that he couldn’t make out. When the door opened again it was Varric who entered. He had his pack again and a steaming tankard in hand. The dwarf forced a smile and nodded before settling himself down, taking a stack of envelopes and a stack of paper and began working.

Fenris wasn’t sure why Varric’s presence wasn’t as heavy as Hawke’s. The dwarf was familiar, and Fenris’ dream of him had seemed to shake out an abstract memory of him. He supposed it was because he did not have as direct a hand in his conversion and torture as Hawke had. That must be it. Something about the dwarf seemed nearly comforting. 

“Why can I read?” Fenris tried, eager to see if the stories would line up.

“Why?” Varric didn’t look up from his work, “Are you having trouble with it?”

“I could not read before.” Fenris frowned. “Tell me why I can now.”

Varric sighed, “I don’t want to argue with you, Fenris, Hawke might be ok with you yelling at him but I’m too tired for any of that shit. I can tell you anything you want to know, but only if you stop calling both of us liars.”

Fenris considered. The prospect of having to listen to lies without being able to call them out sounded horrible. But on the other hand Fenris had no trouble with keeping quiet, with taking it on the chin. He had spent his entire life holding back words and protests in favor of respecting his Master’s peers, of being good and gathering information for his Master for later. 

“I shall hold my tongue.” Fenris answered.

“Hawke taught you.” Varric put down his quill, “He borrowed some books off of me because most of the books he had in his library were dry and a bit difficult for you. Luckily for both of you I write a lot of mildly entertaining books of mediocre difficulty. You went to Hawke’s house a couple times a week for lessons, or that’s what you told the rest of us.”

Varric chuckled to himself, smiling as he gazed off in the distance. He looked like someone who was remembering better times, not like someone who was fabricating an elaborate lie. 

“Why would he do that.” Fenris asked, voice low, not allowing an ounce of friendliness to enter his voice. “Why did Hawke teach me.”

Varric’s eyebrows rose, he tilted his head slowly as his eyes scanned the far wall. “That is something you should ask him.” He answered. “But only if you promise not to yell at him for what he says, I know this is hard for you but…”

Varric seemed to think better than to finish that sentence, shaking his head before going back to his work. Fenris decided to try reading again.

He read in bits and pieces. A few words, perhaps a few lines, before he would stop and allow the words to mull about in his mind. He wasn’t accustomed to hearing his own voice speaking in his head as it did when he read the words. Everything in his head were spoken by other voices. His Master, his weapons trainer back at the estate, the various Venatori. The red lyrium. Never his own voice. He read that Hawke had traveled by ship and he thought of the boat that had taken his Master and him to this faraway place. He thought of how far he was from home. He wondered how far he was from his Master, whether his Master was safe. A pang of fear and dread chilling him as he thought of his Master killed, his precious and favored body guard miles away in a cold cell. 

The red slumbered inside of him. Too cold to be roused on its own or to demand Fenris’ anger and fear. But it sensed when Fenris’ heart ached, when the confusion and imprisonment wore on him. It never raked its teeth along him or breathed down his neck, it simply acknowledged it. It said “ _You see, you suffer without your Master._ ” as it shifted in its sleep. “ _They will wear you down because you are weak._ ”

On the pages Hawke arrived in Kirkwall. “ _The city of chains._ ” The words described the cliffs the ships had to navigate through to reach the harbour. They described a place called the Gallows, where southern mages were kept, where ancient bronzed stones of weeping slaves met you as you set foot upon land. The book did not describe the waves as they hit the rocky cliffs, they did not tell of the long stretched shadows the kneeling screaming bronze slaves cast across the yard. The way the summer sun would glare against the metal of the chains, searing where the glint caught in your eye. Fenris closed the book, wary of its bewitchment and read no more until Varric packed his things and left.

Fenris tried to sleep and found himself trembling. It wasn’t the cold that wafted into the cell that chilled him, he actually found the cold pleasing. It was something else, something far away. A sense of something _forgotten_ and lost. He remembered the feeling from when he was much younger, when he had forgotten an important rule and had to brace himself for the punishment that would meet him. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And it wasn’t that he was trapped, away from his Master, it wasn’t just that. It was something he could not name and was too frightened to search his feelings for. It didn’t matter. _It didn’t matter._ He just had to remain immovable, had to keep his spirits and his strength so he could escape and go home.

Fenris slept. It was fitful, uneasy, so much so that dreams had a hard time forming in his slumbering mind. Red prisms crossed over his eyes, brightened by a shining sun. His feet were warm against flat worn stone. He peered up at high towers, the glass windows reflecting back at him as a strange vengeful peace settled in his chest. The tower kept _them_ away from him, where they belonged. It was an unsettling thought, one that didn’t quite fit and he regretted privately. He saw the kneeling statues, the men in armor standing about watching him, and he was grateful that he was...

Hawke was already sitting on the stool across from Fenris when he awoke. His skin crawled instantly, uncomfortable with the man seeing him sleeping. Hawke had a book open in his hands, his leg bouncing nervously as he frowned down at the pages. He didn’t notice Fenris was awake. It was strange, seeing Hawke unaware that he was being watched. It seemed… normal. Fenris shuddered. It should not. Any feelings of comfort or ease would only be old ones that had been beaten and conditioned into him. It was wrong. 

Fenris cleared his throat after he sat up, wanting Hawke to know he was awake. The man looked up, startled, and pressed his book to his knees as if to hide it.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Hawke asked, he seemed embarrassed or uncomfortable.

“Varric told me not to call you a liar.” Fenris said flatly, watching as Hawke’s expression changed. “I am inclined to follow that order, but know that is the only reason why.”

Hawke blinked rapidly and nodded, his fingers fidgeted with the pages of the book in his hands. “Alright.”

Fenris sat for a second, trying to think of how to ask the question he had rolling about his head. Hawke had gone back to reading by the time he asked, “How long will you keep me here?”

“What?” There was a tremor in Hawke’s voice.

“It’s been more than two days.” Fenris said, although he was unsure of how long he had been captured. “You have not interrogated. You have not made a deal. You have not started any process.”

Hawke adjusted himself on the stool, a long low breath fell away from him. “I’m not going to interrogate you or hurt you Fenris. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here.”

Hawke closed the book and stared down at his boots. “I…” He paused for a long time. “I don’t know, to be honest. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what else to do.”

The weight increased with every word he spoke, as if the entire world pressed down on him with each word. Fenris felt something inside of him twist and tighten. A ghost of a memory entangled in darkness and red crystal. Something too thick and foreign. Fenris closed his eyes and reminded himself of his Master, how he needed to return. How his Master would help him put his unease to rest if he was here. The feeling drained away slowly.

“I am not supposed to call you a liar.” Fenris said, lifting his chin.

Hawke nodded solemnly, his fingers rolling the frayed edges of a piece of red cloth on his wrist. “I think my hopes were too high.” He said softly, “And now that I’m here, and you’re here and alive and safe… I don’t know how to help you.”

Fenris frowned, this again.

“I do not need your help.”

Hawke sighed, “I’m so sorry.”

“What?”

Hawke covered his face with his hands, hiding his eyes from Fenris. He did not shake, instead kept completely stone-still. Fenris watched, a strange lump growing in his throat. 

“I can’t imagine how this is for you.” Hawke said from behind his hands. “I’ve spent years trying to find you, scared to think of what was happening to you. Scared I would never see you alive again. And ever since I saw you at that camp I can’t help but feel horrible. I’m sorry for all of this.”

Fenris’ shoulders curved, he couldn’t make himself smaller in the wide collar but he wanted to vanish through the floor. Feelings he did not understand fluttered in his stomach, clawed his chest, even as the red lyrium slept inside of him. Without thought his mind trailed away to the dark rooms under his Master’s estates, the red glow and the slave blood dripping from the table. Restraints as his Master put the red inside of him. He shook his head to clear the thoughts. Why was he thinking of that? What trickery was Hawke doing to him?

“Before…” Fenris said without thinking, frowning at the stone under him. “You said I was a ‘free man’.”

Saying it caused an odd echo in his chest. Something small and weak inside of him whispered the two words back to him. ‘Free man’. They meant something. They should not have. Fenris was not an unhappy or ungrateful slave. He had never harbored desire to be away from his Master. The words were meant for other people, for humans and mages and masters. 

Hawke did not say anything, he only nodded. There was a melancholy about him that never seemed to fade, never cracked to show the nefarious ulterior that Fenris _knew_ was there. He remembered what his Master had told him. He remembered being taught before going to Seheron, by the same tutor who taught him Qun-lat, that the Qunari would tempt slaves with their so-called ‘freedom’. How they would twist a slave’s weak mind to follow their Qun instead of a flesh-and-blood Master. How they would use a potion to erase the brains of the dull and stubborn. How it was better than betraying their Masters and the Imperium. Fenris nodded slowly to himself. It was better. 

Fenris went back to reading. Guilt caught on him and he hoped that his Master wouldn’t mind. He hoped that exploring this was alright, that he could go back to not reading when he returned. For now it was an easy distraction from the shattering and the rocking inside of him. Even if it was a trick, he would be smarter than to fall into their trap. 

Fenris read for two more days. Hawke had left, replaced with Varric hours later. More food and drink was brought and Fenris picked at it, not indulging in more than the minimum he knew his body needed. He slept in small pockets. Otherwise he said nothing, kept himself in a corner of the cell, reading passages slowly, occasionally stopping to try and clear his mind. 

He read about Hawke working as a mercenary, scraping by on little coin trying to support his mother and his sister. He squeezed his eyes closed at descriptions of Kirkwall, of the mage Bethany, of a planned expedition. Fenris _knew this_. He knew these stories and he knew details he should not. None of it made sense, it all felt familiar as if he had been told this before. He racked his mind, hoping to recall a dinner party where a magister his Master knew told of the streets of Kirkwall and of surface dwarves planning to journey back into the earth for treasures. He remembered nothing. But he remembered that Bethany was pretty. He could picture her next to Hawke, how they looked alike. He felt that she was gone. He did not understand.

Fenris would press the crown of his head against the wall, shut his eyes until he saw nothing but red swirling in black. He would grab the lock that dangled from his neck and tug it so it shook him to his collar bones, felt that reassuring weight, reminded himself that only his Master had the key. That he was not alone. That he was not lost. He would be safe again and all of this would fade.

Hawke and Varric left him alone, sitting quietly nearby in their shifts as Fenris faced the wall. Fenris began to question whether reading was the right thing to do. It was all a lie, wasn’t it? But he had read about Qunari, washing up in a storm, and Fenris remembered his nightmares of the ocean-sprayed streets. He remembered a murmur of the occupation happening and tried to remember if it had happened in Tevinter, even though he knew it couldn’t have. They would have been slaughtered, enslaved, run out into the ocean. The Imperium would not allow them to stay.

He read about Varric, surprised how little there was to read about him, considering how the dwarf spoke. He read about a guardswoman, a name he did not know how to read, but somehow knew. He knew she had freckles, or he imagined it. He read about a woman who was a pirate, whose name rang in his ears and whose laugh he could almost hear. Fenris did not know if it was normal to see things from written words so vividly in his head. Or if he was elaborating on his own, driven by the boredom and isolation. He couldn’t help feeling that he knew these people on the page, and he was too scared to ask his captors if this was how reading was.

When Fenris dreamed again he found himself at his Master’s estate. He stepped through familiar halls until he was in the courtyard where he trained. He fought another slave with a wooden sword, the sound of them striking loud in his ears. He pushed the slave off, winning the match, turning to see men with full armor surrounding him with blades shining. A knife stabbed him and the blood leaked from him in crystals as he fell, as shackles were forced upon him as he laid unable to move. He was carried. He was taken to a ship. He felt the waves and he could not move. He could not escape. He could not be free.

He woke thrashing about on the floor, panic flooding him until he recognized the icy chill and the grey stone above him. He sat up to find Varric looking up at him over a stack of papers, an eyebrow raised.

“Bad dreams?” Varric asked,

Fenris made a disapproving sound and turned away. He cleared his mind of the dream. He did not want to think about it. He didn’t want to question himself, and by extension his Master, any longer. He had done his Master enough disrespect by entertaining even the smallest amount of what his captors tried to tell him. Tried to twist him with. He did not trust his mind, he had learned not to years ago, and he would not question what he knew was the truth. The only truth being the one his Master told him.

“You’ve been reading a lot.” Varric observed from behind Fenris.

Fenris wanted to ignore him, but all his mind did was list everything he had read about Varric in those pages. Everything he had gathered from what he didn’t write about himself. And the things that Fenris was sure he had only imagined and made up. It was too loud. Idle conversation would be better than the clutter in his mind.

“As you say.”

“You enjoying it?”

Fenris looked over his shoulder, hoping his glare would communicate what he thought of the book.

“Fair enough.” Varric almost chuckled and Fenris did not find it as infuriating as it should be. “How far are you?”

Fenris considered stopping the conversation, of turning around and saying nothing as he had the past two shifts the dwarf had taken to watch him. 

But the dwarf was persistent, “Just read me the last line you read, I edited the damn thing enough I can recite it in my sleep.”

Fenris hesitated, but found the words jumbled and clashed about in his head already. He picked up the book from where it lay face-down on the floor and read it, shaky despite his resolve, “The clinic was known as a safe place for any down on their luck, the refugees, the poor and even apostates.”

Varric made a noise between a laugh and a snort, “How you finding that chapter?”

Fenris did not say anything at first. He didn’t want to admit that he could somehow imagine how the clinic in Low Town smelled. He still did not know if that was how reading was supposed to work, “I have no opinion.”

“Your tone says otherwise.” Varric’s voice had an edge of a smile in it, as if he knew a joke that Fenris did not. It had the opposite effect of charm. “You should keep reading though. The next chapter might be interesting to you. I’m interested in hearing your feedback on it.”

Fenris frowned at the wall. He put the book down and instead ate a few strips of jerky he had been brought on Hawke’s last shift. He washed it down with cold water and looked out the crack in the wall, watching the clouds slowly shift through the blue sky out there beyond him. He idly wondered, as he did every hour, where his Master was. If he was safe. If he was angry with Fenris for being missing, or if he was coming to reclaim him. Fenris hoped it was the latter.

After another hour of silence, Fenris hesitantly picked the book back up, acutely aware of Varric’s eyes on the back of his head. He read the remainder of the chapter he was on slowly, carefully, trying to see what it was that Varric had thought was amusing about him reading it. Was there a hidden message? Something enchanted in the print to turn him.

The chapter ended and Fenris was glad to be past reading about the Grey Warden and his cat. But as he turned the page he felt a prickle of anticipation, fear creeping up his spine as he neared the part the dwarf wanted him to read. 

He read a couple lines and found nothing of interest. Nothing that betrayed anything of his captor’s lies. Nothing that twitched inside of his mind and demanded attention. Hawke and a few of his peers had accepted a job, nothing interesting or special. Fenris did not care, he would not care what the words brought him. But then slowly, as the sentences unfolded in front of him, something felt familiar. Before he could stop himself he had read three pages, engrossed. 

And then the words spoke to him, “ _At that moment an elf appeared from a corner, he strode with his chin high and his white hair fanning in front of intense green eyes. His armor unlike any I had seen in the Marches, and where it did not cover him revealed glowing tattoos in intricate swirls and designs._ ”

Fenris had stopped breathing. His heart thudded in his chest. The red rose inside of him, silent, waiting. He read on and found a word he had not seen on a page yet. He knew the word, somehow, familiar in an intimate way. Something that meant something important. He knew it before he admitted to himself that he did. Holding on desperately to the time before now, when he hadn’t seen it. Back to when he was sleeping in his Master’s tent and content and satisfied with all that he knew of the world.

He looked at the word again, swallowing thickly.

It was his name.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but I hope you guys enjoy it none the less. As always thanks so much for reading, commenting, bookmarking and leaving kudos <3
> 
> Totally friendly reminder that I am always down to chat about the fic and DA stuff on my DA tumblr (username 'glowyelfboyfriend') so dont be afraid to hmu!

Skyhold remained as bustling and chaotic as the first night Hawke had arrived. The main hall was full and loud until the early hours of the morning, the training yards busy with all manner of drills and lessons, the tavern rarely ever had more than a few stools free. Hawke saw all sorts of people from across Thedas, nobles and dignitaries, mercenaries and merchants, craftspeople and sisters. He spotted even young children who kept close to their mothers as they navigated the massive keep.

It all should have been enough to distract Hawke. There were endless jobs and tasks and even leisures for him to pursue. But he found himself apathetic, exhausted, and the hours he had away from Fenris’ cell were mostly spent away from the noise and the crowds. He would leave Fenris in the early morning, just as the sun began to rise over the Frostbacks, gather himself a meal from the dining hall and take it to his room. His status of ‘Champion’ had secured him private and comfortable quarters. He was unbothered except for the hold’s medics who would come to check his recovering wounds and mending bones and tell him to get more sleep. 

Hawke would lie down on the soft four-poster bed, sinking in Orlesian silk and ram furs and he would think of Fenris lying on cold stone seven floors under him. 

It was all so surreal. Hawke felt as if he was walking between worlds, weaving through the Inquisition's men and women and then winding down the endless stairs until he reached the deepest dungeons. Every time he opened the door to where Fenris’ cell was hidden, he felt as if he were seeing him for the first time. He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that the elf locked in the cell was not the same one he remembered from all those years ago. Fenris was changed, in more ways than he could have imagined. Where Hawke remembered forest green eyes, were now burning red. The strength, the caution, the anxiety and even the softness he remembered from Fenris was still there, but filtered, altered, transformed into someone different.

But Hawke still loved him. That might be the greatest tragedy of Hawke’s life. Years of his life shaved away so he might save his love, a man who wanted nothing to do with him. A man who had been lied to and convinced that Hawke had caused him all of his suffering. The Fenris that Hawke had watched recover, grow stronger, learn and discover himself, was gone. Hakwe’s dreams of having Fenris back in his life had grown dark. 

The reality of guarding his cell and keeping him hidden so that the Fereldens of Skyhold wouldn’t demand his execution was wearing on him. How long could he keep this up for? How long until Fenris broke the last of Hawke’s resolve with his accusations and hatred? How long before Fenris gave up, retreated into himself as captivity drained all spirit he had left? 

When would this all be over?

Surprisingly Varric was more optimistic than Hawke. He had volunteered to take the day shift outside of Fenris’ cell on his own, meeting with Hawke daily to talk about Fenris, offering suggestions for how Hawke could talk to him and tried to keep Hawke’s spirits up. It was refreshing after years of Varric trying to talk Hawke out of pursuing Fenris, only a handful of people in Skyhold even knew Fenris was there and Hawke needed all the support he could get. Although, he still had not decided if it was genius or madness to give Fenris a copy of _The Tale of the Champion_. 

Fenris was reading it slowly, almost painfully slow. Hawke had read the book in its entirety nearly three times since the book appeared in Fenris’ hands. He had dog-eared a dozen pages, trying to visually recognize the different page thicknesses so he might estimate where Fenris was in the story. Anxiety and anticipation were a near constant buzz in his head knowing that sooner or later Fenris would find a truth that would change everything.

Hawke almost didn’t want Fenris to read those truths, he didn’t know how Fenris would respond when he found that they had been _together_. Hawke had been struggling to figure out a way to convince Fenris that all of this was _real_ and that what Danarius had told him were lies. How would he ever convince him that he had lived free, that he had freed himself and that he went back to his ‘Master’ against his will? He feared that Fenris learning they had been romantic would spoil everything there was to recover. Fenris would claim it was all a trick, he would tear the pages and threaten Hawke’s life and it would all be over.

It was hard to consider that Fenris might have to be imprisoned like this for the rest of his life. 

Hawke let the thought wind through him when he sat outside of Fenris’ cell. Fenris had spent the entire night ignoring Hawke, sitting on his folded wool blanket reading his book or staring blankly at the far wall. Hawke had given up on rereading the book, sick of reading about how Fenris _had_ been while he could look up and see him as he was. The red lyrium in him shifted and glowed although it was less vibrant and violent that he had seen before. His hair slightly shorter than he remembered it, keeping it from fanning in front of his red eyes and keeping the lyrium on his forehead on display. Fenris’ mannerisms were hidden under layers of what Hawke knew was slave training and the red lyrium’s aggressive influence. The lock on the wide leather collar would shift against the iron loop, ringing in Hawke’s ears. Constant reminders that Fenris was not the man he used to be.

It was lonely sitting on the other side of those bars. It was dark and it was cold and a lyrium beast was prowling inside the brands of the man Hawke loved. 

The sun rose and Hawke left the dungeon exhausted and gutted. As he had been every time he left. The days were stretching into a colorless expanse that threatened to swallow everything up. There was no end in sight. There was no point. Hawke climbed up the stairs into the light, his legs aching and weary. His path took him out to one of the yards, the air frigid as a shimmering orange light crawled up the keep’s walls. It was quiet, too early for messengers and travelers and combat drills. Hawke could hear the wind whistling through the mountains, the soft murmur of men at the front gates, the whinny of a hungry horse in the far stable. 

Hawke had not taken the time to walk the grounds, or get outside at all lately. Varric had told him that he needed a break, fresh air and friendly company. Hawke thought he didn’t need it, that he could press through all of it until it hardened him. Like a callus or a wound, he just needed to be stronger or to learn how to deal with it. But standing here, wrapping his cloak tighter around him, he decided that some change wouldn’t hurt. He considered fetching his bow, hiking to the peaks where the elk passed by below. But he was too tired for it now, having stayed up through the night with Fenris, but perhaps something simpler was in order.

Skyhold’s tavern stood huddled by tall stone walls, unassuming and worn down, it was one of the few wooden structures remaining. Hawke had only come with Varric, and only ever in the evening when the noise and singing and shouts could be heard from the high towers. It was nearly empty as Hawke stepped in from the cold. A couple of soldiers in the Inquisition’s heraldry gathered around a table with tankards, dark circles under their eyes after a long night-shift. Another table had what looked like keep staff and scribes, chatting and laughing with steaming mugs and bowls of porridge. A few tired looking individuals crossed through, up and down the stairs to the rooms and halls the upper levels connected to. It was quiet, and no more crowded than the dining hall was at this dawn hour. Hawke took a stool at the counter.

The regular barman was replaced by a stocky woman in a dirty apron with her hair tied back. She looked up from a collection of steaming kettles and stacks of freshly washed cups and tankards. Hawke ordered and without so much as a blink the woman filled him a tankard of ale and slid it across the counter to him. 

It was watered down and sour, and vaguely reminded Hawke of the terrible ale they served at the Hanged Man. It softened the edges inside of him easily, the exhaustion becoming less heavy and more of a warm lump inside of him. His thoughts loosened, not leaving but breathing and fluid. The tankard was emptied quickly and Hawke nodded for another.

Halfway through his second ale Hawke was startled by the stool beside him sliding out. A large man negotiated into the space, bumping into Hawke’s shoulder. He was nearly double Hawke’s size, shirtless and had a rack of horns that only just cleared over Hawke’s head as the qunari settled his elbows onto the counter.

“Waiting for someone?” His voice was impossibly deep, but undeniably friendly and charming. Hawke shook his head, still taking in the qunari and his one eye and scarred grey body. “You don’t mind if I join you then?”

Hawke felt like he didn’t really have a choice, the tavern was anything but full so clearly the stranger intended something with him. The barmaid brought an ale for the qunari without prompting and he thanked her by name before taking a swig and turning to Hawke.

“Rough night?” The qunari smiled, his one eye glinting in a way that made Hawke feel strangely unsettled. “You look like you haven’t slept in a couple of years.”

Hawke narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember if he ever saw this qunari around Skyhold. He had seen a qunari or two in passing, but he wouldn’t have forgotten this man’s size and formidable horns. 

“Sorry-” Hawke realized he was staring, “Have we met or?” 

“The name’s The Iron Bull,” He said with a smirk, as if there was a joke there Hawke was not privy to. “Me and my men work for the Inquisitor, we do a bit of this and that. Mostly killing things.”

Hawke nodded, still unsure why this Iron Bull was singling him out. It felt like friendliness but that couldn’t just be it, “I’m just helping out, doing a bit of this and that as well.”

“You’re working in the dungeons.” Iron Bull looked at him over his tankard with a tight smile, “You’re protecting the elf that killed the queen.”

Hawke stilled, slowly putting his drink down as he remembered where his dagger was. No one was supposed to know about Fenris. He eyed the qunari, ready for the huge man to make a move or threaten him. Or was it blackmail? 

The qunari laughed, a deep loud guffaw as he slapped a hand against the counter, nearly shaking the tankards. 

“ _Relax_ ,” It was low and soft, conspiratorial and somehow made Hawke’s hackles lower. “Your secret is safe with me. I’m not interested in telling anyone about him being here. I used to be Ben-Hassrath, not much can get past me. Also Varric talked about you a lot out on the road, you and your elf friend.”

Hawke looked over his shoulder quickly, scanning the tavern to see if anyone could hear them. The few patrons were engrossed in their own conversations, or half asleep as they finished the last of their drinks and wandered off to find their beds. He turned back to Iron Bull with his head bent low, his heart still racing from the fright. In his drowsy state the name had not been familiar, but now he could remember Varric mentioning Iron Bull in a letter, one of the many Hawke had simply scanned and folded away.

“You couldn’t have found a less threatening way of bringing that up?” Hawke muttered before tipping back his tankard. The foamy dregs tasted terrible but he was already asking for another.

“Nah.” The Iron Bull said, leaning back a bit in his stool, “A little fright is good first thing in the morning, wakes you up. Even if you’ve been up all night.”

Hawke looked him up and down, “Have you been up all night?”

The qunari waved a wide hand dismissively, “All that crap is relative. But,” He scooted his stool up a bit closer, as if there was more space for him to move into next to Hawke. “I wanted to check in and see how _you_ are doing. From what I know about the ‘Vints and about these Venatori, I don’t expect your friend is in a good place right now. I can imagine that guarding him night in and night out isn’t the funnest thing for you either.”

Hawke wondered if Varric had put Iron Bull up to this, checking in to see if he would open up about anything he wouldn’t to Varric. Varric knew these people and knew the inner workings and Hawke was only a visitor. But still, Ben-Hassrath were spies weren’t they? It was possible that this qunari was simply acting on that.

“Why?” Hawke asked, blinking back the effects of his ale, the room starting to swim. “Why do you care?”

“Because the boss cares.” Iron Bull answered easily, “Sabrae wants your friend to recover, wants the red lyrium to be healed. Varric wants _you_ to be happy. And so, I care.”

Something deep inside of Hawke shifted and swelled. He could feel how close he was to letting it all come out, everything he had been thinking and feeling since Fenris had woken in that cell. The drink must have loosened him up, that or the steady reassuring beats in the Iron Bull’s voice. Hawke hadn’t found himself comfortable around qunari since everything that happened in Kirkwall, but this seemed safe. 

Hawke smiled, a strained and uncomfortable thing, “His ‘master’ brainwashed him into thinking I was with qunari that tortured him and tried to convert him back in Seheron.”

Iron Bull blinked, “Shit.” 

“Yeah.” Hawke took a long swig of his ale. 

“What kind of ‘brainwash’ are we talking here?” The Iron Bull asked, frowning with concern. “It’s not blood magic is it?”

“Yeah.” Hawke stared into the distance.

“Crap, well, explains why Dorian was shaken up.” Iron Bull pulled his gaze back to Hawke then, “He didn’t tell me by the way. Didn’t say a thing, he’s good about that so no need to worry.”

“Ok.” Hawke nodded, he had not even considered that Iron Bull might have heard from Dorian, he had kind of forgotten that he had been involved at all. That night was a blur now, a red-lit and bloody blur. 

For a moment they did nothing but sip their drinks. The Iron Bull looked pensive even though Hawke could feel the ale dulling his own senses. The tavern remained quiet, with only a few people passing through and fewer settling in seats with freshly brewed tea and coffee. 

“Did you want to hear what I think?” The Iron Bull broke the silence. 

Hawke managed to shrug, unsure. The large qunari turned slightly in his stool, his eye scanning the tavern casually before he nudged Hawke with an elbow and nodded toward the far windows. An elf was there, dutifully washing the glass of the windows. He wiped his rag in tight, methodical circles with a speed that betrayed a desperation or anxiety. His ears twitched at the smallest sounds, but his attention was focused on the task, as if his life depended on it.

“He used to be a slave.” Iron Bull said quietly to Hawke as he turned back to the bar. “He still thinks he is a slave. We’ve been taking in a lot of them since the Inquisition started going after the ‘Vints. Most of them don’t speak Common and not many people around here speak Tevene, so for a long time they think they are still slaves but with new masters.”

Hawke thought of Orana then. He saw her mannerisms in the elf at the window. He remembered how long it took her to stop calling him ‘master’, to understand the coin he gave her was _hers_ to spend as she wished, that she was allowed to come and go as she pleased. He hadn’t thought of it, barely thought of her since he gave her a large portion of his savings before vanishing from Kirkwall. 

“It can take a long time,” Iron Bull continued, “And that’s just for the regular ones who aren’t full of red lyrium and blood magic. Saw a lot of it in Seheron.”

A prickle ran up Hawke’s spine and spiked the back of his neck, he shot a look at Iron Bull, seeing him differently. “You were in Seheron.”

Iron Bull stiffened slightly, only slightly, “Yeah.”

The echoes of Fenris’ old stories of Seheron rang in Hawke’s head. Fenris’ new accusations about Hawke and what happened rang louder. “You dealt with slaves in Seheron?”

Iron Bull’s mouth twisted before he drank back the last of his ale, turning to look Hawke in the eye as he put the empty tankard down. “If you’re asking me if I tortured slaves to convert them, then the answer is _no_. That wasn’t what I was there for. Besides, the slaves that become Viddathari are not forced into it, they are _rescued_.”

“So they choose it?” Hawke raised an eyebrow, “One master for another?”

Iron Bull’s face screwed up, something faraway danced in his gaze that Hawke could not read. “Look, I’m not going to debate about all that crap with you. What should matter to you right now is that I have more experience with deprogramming slaves than you do.”

“So I should be asking for advice from you? Is that it?” Hawke’s voice had raised without him noticing, someone at the far side of the tavern looked up.

“Yes.” Iron Bull looked Hawke in the eye, his voice stern. “You should. Clearly there is a part of you that finds all this pointless. You act like you have been defeated and refuse to see that you have already won.”

Hawke shrank a bit on his stool. Iron Bull’s words thudded against his chest, shaking up the tangle of emotions that twisted and choked inside of him. 

“I just wanted to save him.” His voice was small.

“You did.” Iron Bull inclined toward Hawke, the closeness feeling comforting instead of intimidating. “He is safe. The rest of the struggle is his. You can help him along, you can give him everything he needs, but this battle is his now.”

The qunari sat back again, the pressure released and Hawke found his eyes were watering. When had that started? He blinked back hard, turning to look at the elf at the back of the tavern who was wringing his cloth into a bucket and sneaking anxious glances around the tavern. 

“So for him,” Iron Bull picked up the conversation casually, as if Hawke hadn’t just been on the verge of tears. “It goes like this: The bar staff give him jobs to do that are straightforward. He was a slave so cleaning and picking up things is normal and familiar for him. He doesn’t know he is not a slave, but no one treats him like one. Soon he will learn he will not be punished, he will realize he can make his own decisions, because those things are already given to him. He needs to figure it out on his own.”

“But Fen-” Hawke dropped his voice, remembering suddenly that anyone could hear him, “ _he_ thinks I am his enemy, that I did horrible things to him and am going to hurt him again.”

“Every slave the ‘Vints drag to Seheron are told that crap.” Iron Bull nodded to the barmaid, two freshly poured ales were pushed in front of them. “The only difference here is that he already got himself out once, didn’t he?”

An image of Fenris in Kirkwall flashed in Hawke’s mind, unhindered by his own grief, Fenris free and himself. The thought had been so heavy before, the comparison between that Fenris and the Fenris in the cell had been so bleak. But now it shifted into a new light, Fenris had _already_ overcome this once before. 

Hawke swallowed back some ale warily, “So he can do it again?”

“Of course he can.” Iron Bull grinned, “You’re probably one step ahead of him, you already know what crap he went through before don’t you? You know more of what helped him become free than he does right now.”

“The Fog Warriors.” Hawke mused out loud, remembering the stories Fenris had told of them. How Fenris had lived with them when he was separated from Danarius, how they helped him realize his own worth and agency as a person instead of as an object. “He lived with them before he finally chased after his freedom.”

“Ah.” Iron Bull’s eyebrow lifted, his voice a little too loud. “They operate a lot like how the Inquisition is handling rescued slaves, gently introducing them to freedom. No use in arguing with them, or trying to force their trust, your friend will probably respond better if you let him find his own way. From what I heard, he’s clever but stubborn, he’ll come to his own conclusions in his own time.”

“It’s his battle.” Hawke said to his ale.

“It’s his battle.” Iron Bull repeated with a nod.

“Hopefully it doesn’t go exactly how it went with the Fog Warriors.” Hawke grumbled after a long drink. “I don’t want him to kill me.”

Iron Bull chuckled, a deep rattle that shook his shoulders, “Yeah, that might put a damper on you two getting back together.”

Hawke had more ale, losing count of how many he had in total. The drink warmed and mulled him down, softening and relaxing him until the words the Iron Bull spoke had soaked through. About an hour later he found Skyhold had transformed into a rocking ship at sea. He was taken to his room by Iron Bull, who had him reach around his wide torso for support as they went to Hawke’s room through a quiet, hidden route Iron Bull knew and he didn’t. Luckily no one saw Hawke red-faced and drunk, and before he could thank the qunari for the talk, Hawke had fallen on his bed and drifted to sleep almost instantly.

His drunken dreams were in a constant shift. Lights and colors blurring into each other as he followed Fenris through Kirkwall streets, deep roads and dark snowy mountain paths. The red lyrium clashed against the old familiar blue glow of Fenris’ markings in the dark, rolling between sheets and then onto cold stone and melting snow. No matter how far Fenris went in the dream, searching and hunting yards away from him, Hawke followed. 

Hawke did not feel lost, or forgotten, or like he was chasing a ghost. He was a guardian in his dream, watching over Fenris from afar. He was back in the Marches, following Fenris as they hunted down the slavers who were coming for him. As they traced the threads that tied Fenris to his dark past, looking for where Fenris could cut them down with his sword and go back home unburdened and unpursued. 

The sun had been long set by the time Hawke woke. The drink had dragged out his sleep beyond the time he usually got up, his head pounding and his stomach turned unhappily. But it had been good that he had gone to the tavern, he felt lighter and everything in front of him seemed clearer now. 

He washed up quickly, changing his clothes and stopping by the dining hall for a quick meal before he descended down the endless steps to the dungeons. Varric was waiting for him outside of the room that hid Fenris’ cell, a mischievous smile stretching across his face as Hawke neared.

“There he is.” Varric said jovially, unable to wipe the smile off his face. “It’s not like you to be late, what kept you?”

Hawke wondered if it was obvious that he was hungover. He scratched at his beard and shrugged, “Overslept.”

“Mhm.” Varric humed, the smile had not faded. “Then you didn’t hear about the Grey Wardens?”

“What?” Hawke blinked, “No I didn’t.”

“Ah well,” Varric shrugged, hefted his bag of paperwork and stepped closer to Hawke, “You will. I have to hand these letters over to Ruffles, so I don’t have time to talk right now but-” Varric patted Hawke’s arm as he passed, smile widening. “You have a _great_ night, ok? Go easy on him, cause I don’t think he’ll do the same for you.”

Before Hawke had a chance to ask what he meant, Varric had vanished up the stairs, too fast for a dwarf. Hawke’s head ached, he rubbed a palm to his temple and decided he would figure that out later.

Hawke unlocked the door and stepped into the room. Fenris was standing close to the bars, red eyes boring into him, he was holding up _The Tale of the Champion_ in his hand.

“I have questions.” Fenris said sternly, unblinking. “Varric said you would answer them.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, have I shared the Color Red music playlist with you yet? Listen to it here > https://open.spotify.com/user/12174893875/playlist/6q9AVjJdlp1RTbka3uhjR4
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos, comments, and bookmarks! You guys are keeping my motivation up, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

_“I have questions.”_

Fenris’ voice echoed in Hawke’s mind, ricocheting about as he stood there completely still. Fenris was staring at him determinedly, a deep resolve shined out that told Hawke that he would not back down. His decision was made, even if there was a small wane of caution and fear deep in his red eyes. The expression was hauntingly familiar. It was the expression Fenris had when he first entered the abandoned mansion, when he decided to go after Harania, when he came to Hawke’s house out of the rain the first night they spent together. It was the look on his face before Fenris steeled himself before entering the Hanged Man one last time.

“Yeah?” Hawke’s voice croaked. He tried to keep his resolve up, remembering that this was about _Fenris_ , that Fenris needed to find his own path to the truth. 

Fenris stood fast, his held book up, its edges curled from the intense grip Fenris had on it. Hawke wondered how far he had read, clearly he had gotten to the point where he was introduced, at least that far. The early chapters did little more than introduce him, explaining a little of his background and how he came to join Hawke’s group all those years ago. But even that was probably a lot to take in, considering the first time they met Fenris asked Hawke to go with him to kill Danarius.

Fenris remained silent and Hawke realized, rather uncomfortably, that he was waiting for permission to ask his questions. “You can ask me whatever you like.” Hawke’s voice was quiet in the small space.

Fenris tilted his chin up, trying to look larger, “I want honest answers.”

Hawke nodded, pulled the stool so it was halfway between the wall and the bars and sat. “Of course,” Then a thought occurred to him and he seized the chance, “In exchange, I would like it if you could answer my questions honestly too.”

Fenris frowned at that and Hawke expected him to shut down, to bear his newly-sharpened teeth and retreat. But he didn’t. It was clear he was weighing the deal in his head, seeing if it was worth it for him to agree in exchange for what he wanted. 

Hawke saw the hesitation and clarified, “You don’t _have_ to answer anything you feel is too intrusive, I don’t want information about the Venatori or your master. It’s up to you.”

Fenris relaxed slightly, his ears dropping by a degree as the frown softened from his face. “Agreed.” He answered stiffly, he lowered his hands and fidgeted with the book’s pages uneasily. 

They were silent for a moment as Fenris gathered his nerves back up. Hawke felt the same, twisting shaking fingers in his hand as he watched Fenris eye him uneasily. Hawke extended a hand, inviting Fenris to go ahead and ask.

“Why.” Fenris blurted, swallowing and breaking eye contact for a moment before meeting eyes with Hawke again. “Why would you go to all of this trouble for me?”

 _Because I love you_ , Hawke thought instantly. He sat forward on his stool, wringing his hands. He couldn’t say that, it would disarm Fenris, it would cause him to retreat and distrust Hawke more than he already did. He would learn eventually though. He would get to the point in the book when Varric wrote about how they exchanged longing glances long before either of them thought to act on the desire. Hawke couldn’t leave him to read it on his own, he did not want to lie to him or trick him, but he couldn’t just _say_.

Hawke cleared his throat before he spoke, “What do you mean?” 

Fenris tapped red-laced fingers against the book’s cover, a little bit frantic, “It’s been years since I returned to my Master. Why did you pursue me? Why have you captured me and why would you…” Fenris shook the book, frowning at the floor, “Why does _this_ exist?”

“Uh.” Hawke rubbed his face, this was going to be difficult. “I didn’t want Varric to write the book, honestly, I still don’t particularly like that he did. He said something about people wanting the ‘real’ story about what happened.”

Hawke paused there, feeling self conscious about that last line. Fenris wouldn’t remember the qunari invasion and he was gone before the Chantry incident and the circle revolting. He wondered if his answer without that context would seem leading. Fenris had no reaction, staring at Hawke evenly as he waited for the rest of his answer.

“And as for the rest…” Hawke opened his hands, feeling the words in his mouth before he said them. “I wanted you to be safe. I care about you.”

Hawke expected the red lyrium to flare up, for Fenris to snarl and toss the book at him and threaten him. But instead Fenris furrowed his brow without breaking eye contact, absorbing the words slowly before staring pensively at the far wall.

“Because I lived in Kirkwall? Because I was your friend?” Fenris did not sound fully convinced of his own words, as if this was still nothing but an elaborate ruse. But Hawke could see the cogs turning in his head, he only wished he knew in what direction they were turning.

“Yes.” Hawke answered. When Fenris did not say anything he sat forward on his stool and asked, “Why do _you_ think I spent years finding you?”

Fenris’ eyes were sharp when they met Hawke’s again, the red in them seeming to glow just a little brighter. “To steal me. To convert me and turn me against my Master.”

Hawke nodded a bit, he knew that would be the answer, “You know a lot about the qunari right? You were taught Qun-lat and about their culture before you first went to Seheron?”

Fenris’ ear twitched as his face hardened further, “Yes.”

“With everything you know about them, can you tell me why they would spend years trying to get back a prisoner? Or why they would try to confuse you with a book that has nothing to do with the Qun?”

Fenris’ eyes darted away, his lip was stiff and his fingers twitched on the book in his hands. Confusion and frustration were creeping into Fenris’ resolve. He did not answer. Hawke figured his only answer would be that it was what his ‘master’ had told him. Hawke remembered what Iron Bull had told him, how Fenris would need to come to his own conclusions. And it made clearer sense now; if Hawke told him right now that his beloved master was wrong and had been lying to him, the conversation would end. Fenris was smart, he would figure it out eventually.

Fenris shook his head softly, as he used to do when he would try to clear his mind, “I am not a common warrior slave. I am more valuable than the others they- you- would have caught.”

“Fenris,” Hawke sat back, trying not to dwell on how Fenris had to _correct_ himself in his belief that Hawke was qunari. “Qunari hate magic. If they had caught you in Seheron, they would sooner sew your mouth shut than try to convert you into their ranks.”

Fenris stared at the ground, his eyelids fluttering as a hand gripped on an iron bar for support. Hawke guessed that Fenris had not considered that before.

Hawke wanted to continue, to pick apart and unravel the parts of the story Fenris had been force fed by Danarius. But he needed to be gentle, he had to trust Fenris.

Fenris turned his gaze to the book in his hands, which Hawke noticed now had a couple of dog-eared pages. 

“Is anything in this book true?” Fenris asked quietly.

“Yes.” Hawke answered.

“Why am I in the book?”

“Because you were there.”

Fenris flipped the book open, Hawke could see lead lines scratched into the pages underlining and circling words and sentences he couldn’t read from where he sat. 

“You expect me to believe I was there to _kill_ my Master?” Fenris’ words were touched by a small, half-hearted snarl. 

Hawke remembered that night, a lifetime ago, when Fenris had yelled out into that empty mansion that he was not afraid.

“I don’t, actually, but it’s the truth.” Hawke answered. Fenris narrowed his eyes at him as he shrugged and continued, “Why are you asking me about it, Fenris?”

Fenris didn’t look away, keeping his eyes narrowed at Hawke, searching his face for lies or deception. For a moment it seemed that Fenris would not answer, but he kept to the deal and answered, “Because I can see things the book describes.”

Hawke’s heart stopped. Fenris was remembering. The book was jogging his memory. Dorian had told him that Fenris’ memory was trapped in his mind, behind a wall of blood magic, and Hawke was almost sure they would never tear it down. He swallowed thickly, trying to keep his face from showing how happy and relieved he was.

“You can?” Hawke croaked.

“You told me you taught me to read.” Fenris said. “You did that because you ‘cared’, is that right?”

Hawke’s throat was growing a lump, “Yes.”

“I can see the places in this book.” Fenris’ voice was quieter, as if he was sharing a secret. “I know things about the people and places, things that are not written in the book. How long ago was this supposed to be?”

“What part?” Hawke’s head was swimming, he felt sure he would wake from a dream any moment.

“This.” Fenris tapped the page, then suddenly seemed to realize Hawke could not read it from where he sat Fenris tipped the book back up and scanned the page, “When you went to the mansion- when-”

Fenris’ eyes squeezed shut as if in pain. His fingered curled into fists where he held the book.

“When-” He opened his eyes and tried again, there was a sheen on his eyes as if they might be watering but the tone of his voice betrayed frustration. “The Hightown mansion, and the demons and…”

Hawke’s heart ached. Fenris couldn’t bring himself to put his own name in the sentence, much less mention trying to kill Danarius. He managed to earlier when he mocked it, but now it seemed to be too much for him.

“When we met?” Hawke offered softly, “What about it?”

Fenris exhaled at the out Hawke offered him, “Yes, when was that? How long ago?”

“Oh, uh,” Hawke squinted at the ceiling as he tried to count the years in his head, “That was about six or seven years before you- uh- ‘left’. And that was almost four years ago now. So… around ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago.” Fenris’ voice was small.

Hawke decided not to tell him that he had been on the run from Danarius for almost two years before they met. But a question rose in its wake.

“Do you know how long ago it was when you and your master went to Seheron?” Hawke asked.

Fenris’ eyes darted away and Hawke knew that Fenris did not know. Hawke tried to imagine what it would be like to not remember _years_ of your life, to not even know how many years. He wondered if Fenris had any idea how old he was exactly, if he had any inner timeline of the events that happened between Seheron and now. 

“What do you remember?” Hawke asked, his ears ringing with the accusations and threats Fenris had spat at him last time he had asked. 

Fenris turned away, his face down at he stared unseeing at the book, his hair not quite long enough to cover his eyes. “My Master waking me, healing me after the torture and starvation I was subjected to. After he rescued me.”

Hawke’s stomach twisted, and anger railing uselessly inside of him. “Before that?”

Fenris looked at the far wall. A miniscule, hidden sigh fell from him. “Seheron.”

So everything Fenris had accused Hawke of were things that Danarius had planted. All things considered, it was clever of him. Any memory Fenris might still have of Hawke or his time in Kirkwall was too vague without proper context. A qunari plot would fill in the blanks, especially if Fenris wouldn’t question it too far.

Fenris looked at Hawke over his shoulder, something close to vulnerability peeking through him. “The book did not say how I got to Kirkwall.”

“You want me to tell you what I know?” Hawke asked cautiously, he didn’t want to overload Fenris all at once. 

Fenris nodded in response, eyes averted at the far wall as he kept his back to Hawke. 

“I only know what you told me so I don’t have a lot of details. You said that you and… your master, got separated in Seheron.” Hawke sighed, remembering the tone and the small smile Fenris had when he first told Hawke. He remembered how, years later, Fenris told him it was one of the most terrifying moments in his life. “He had to leave without you. Once you were on your own you got pretty badly injured, but the Fog Warriors took you in and mended your wounds. You stayed with them in the jungles for a couple weeks, you always spoke of them fondly.”

Fenris’ shoulders squared under the massive collar, he stepped away from the bars, “Enough.”

“Alright.” Hawke closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. He wondered if Fenris had remembered something, if the words Hawke said rang true somewhere deep inside of him. Perhaps he would remember in his own time, perhaps he would ask again.

Fenris paced aimlessly in his cell, a couple steps in one direction before doubling back and turning again. He kept his eyes off of Hawke, but when Hawke was able to catch them he could see the confusion and fear that was bubbling inside of him.The metal link on the ring of his collar chimed when he turned, the lock thumping against the leather beneath it every now and again. 

“If all of this is true,” Fenris said, turning back to the bars and resting a hand against them. “Why am I imprisoned?”

Hawke let out a long breath, “Because you are a prisoner of the Inquisition.” The words were thick on his tongue. “You killed the Queen of Ferelden and are considered to be a threat to the safety of the Inquisition. It’s not my choice.”

“You disagree with them?” Fenris looked down at Hawke with his chin up.

Hawke remembering the broken ribs that had only just healed, the slice up his back that was poked and prodded at until the fragments of red lyrium were drawn from it. He didn’t doubt that Fenris would have killed him if Dorian and Varric had not intervened. 

“It’s… not my choice.” Hawke repeated.

Fenris narrowed his eyes, “What do you want from me? What is it you are hoping to achieve?”

“I…” Hawke looked up at him, words dying on his tongue. He _had_ to tell him the truth of their history. He had to, Fenris could pick out when he was lying or when he was withholding something. Every time Fenris asked what he wanted with him, Hawke had given an answer that Fenris did not believe. “I wanted to free you from your master. I wanted things to go back to how they were.”

Fenris’ face fell, his ears dropped, something unreadable in his eyes as he veiled them over with a familiar numbness, “Why?”

“Fenris listen,” Hawke scrubbed at his face before standing, looking Fenris eye-to-eye. “I hate seeing you in this cell, if I had the power and if you truly wanted it… I would open this cell door and let you run back to your master. If that was what you wanted. I wanted to help you, to rescue you, because years ago things were different and you were a free man and I couldn’t let this all happen to you without _trying_ …”

Fenris stepped back from the bars again. His jaw was set, his ears pinning as he stared at Hawke. “You would release me?”

“I would.” Hawke groaned softly as he turned away. He thought of the Fog Warriors, how they all had to be killed before Fenris realized he did not want to be a slave anymore. He wondered if that was the only way. “I don’t want that life for you, I want you to be as happy and free as you were back in Kirkwall. But if that was all you wanted, who am I to keep you from that? I cannot make that decision for you.”

Fenris frowned at Hawke as if he was speaking nonsense. From his perspective it probably was. Fenris was a captive prisoner with his captor telling him he would sooner release him because he couldn’t make a choice for him. Fenris had not had choices or free thought in four years, why would he trust or understand any of this. How could Hawke prove it wasn’t all a trick?

Hawke nodded at the book in Fenris’ hands, “...How far are you?”

Fenris blinked down at the book, as if he had forgotten he was holding it. “We- They are going to the deep roads.”

Hawke let out a low whistle and rubbed at his neck, “Bad times.” 

He was about to ask something else when there was a knock at the door. Fenris stared at the door with ears perked, and Hawke was apprehensive as well, no one had ever knocked on the door during Hawke’s shifts. He stepped over to the door, opening it a crack to see one of the Inquisitor's assistants he recognized from the war room.

“Ser Hawke,” She curtsied slightly, made no move to try and look past him into the room. She did not seem confused or intrigued, just wholly professional. “My apology for any interruption or inconvenience this may cause, but I have an important message for you.”

“Yes?” Hawke came through the door, shuffling into the stone hall with her. “What is it?”

“Commander Cullen requests your presence.” She continued, “Promptly, in the war room.”

With that, the assistant curtsied again and vanished down the hall to her next task. Did _anyone_ in this keep sleep? It must be close to three in the morning by now, what could possibly be important enough that Cullen would request him to come and speak to him at this hour? A small fear stirred inside of him, but had nothing to attach itself to. 

Hawk went back to Fenris’ cell, feeling shaken, and found that the cautiously curious expression on Fenris’ face was actually a bit reassuring. 

“I have to go,” Hawke explained. “I’m not sure I’ll be back before my next shift.”

Fenris said nothing. He thumbed at the book’s page edges thoughtfully as he watched Hawke.

“Listen…” Hawke said before he could stop himself. He couldn’t keep the words from pouring out, too heavy to be kept any longer. “I would rather tell you before you find out about it from the book. I know I’ve said I care about you, but, it was more than that. We… we were romantic. We were together. I don’t want to mislead or lie to you, so, that’s my truth.”

Fenris said nothing. He had no visible reaction, as if he hadn’t heard Hawke at all, as if Hawke had only imagined he admitted their relationship to him. His gaze was veiled, empty, the same eyes he made when he had told Hawke of the trauma laced into his body, or when he had a good hand in cards. He betrayed nothing.

Hawke nodded to himself, blinking hard, not willing to let his eyes well in front of Fenris again. He turned and left to head to the war room.

-

Hawke had never gone to the war room without Varric. Every time he had been dragged into the heart of the Inquisition, the room had been full and bustling with the most important people in the keep and the dozens of scribes, messengers and assistants. The thought of walking in alone was intimidating, but after passing through Skyhold to find the halls quiet with few to be seen, Hawke questioned who would even be there besides Cullen and himself.

Josephine’s office was dark, the fireplace holding nothing but glowing embers. A single assistant stood in the hall before the war room, leaning against the wall bundled in a cloak as he squinted at a writing board under a single candle. He looked up as Hawke approached, nodded a greeting and gestured for Hawke to enter.

The room was quiet and nearly empty. It felt larger than it had before, the stained glass dark and glinting from the few low lantern lights that attempted to brighten the room. Cullen was sitting at the war table, cross referencing papers, signing and noting a few before handing them off to a lonely scribe. A hooded agent was bent over another table, stacking papers and sorting them until she gathered a bundle and left. No one else was here. The apprehension Hawke was trying to ignore grew as he approached the table.

Cullen looked up, the bags under his eyes were exaggerated by the low light, “Hawke, thank you for joining me. I have something important to discuss with you.”

Cullen stood, brushing his hair back from his eyes as he scanned the cluttered table for something. The scribe sitting by noticed and picked up a folded parchment to hand to him. Cullen nodded a thank you and unfolded it in front of him, looking back up at Hawke.

“How is Fenris… progressing?” Cullen seemed exhausted.

“Uh,” Hawke scratched at his beard, “I’m not really sure? We just had a really intense talk and, honestly, I’m not sure. Do you need me to give a report?”

Cullen shook his head quickly, “No, I was merely inquiring, but I don’t expect there is a simple answer to that question.” He frowned down at the paper below him, which Hawke could tell was a letter of some sort. “There have been some developments, developments that concern him.”

Hawke blinked, “‘Developments’?”

“It appears that there are a few in our ranks who have begun to suspect he might be here.” Cullen leaned forward on the table, holding himself up as he kept steady eye contact. “We might have overlooked how obvious we were, in having both you and Varric taking shifts to guard his cell. I am not sure who started the rumors but they have reached a few of our political allies and we will not be able to keep the truth from them for much longer.”

Hawke let his head hang back, his eyes closing to steel himself, “Any of them Ferelden?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Cullen answered. “It will not be long before they demand action from the Inquisition. Additionally, it appears that the Venatori are weaponizing red lyrium further, enough to rival the impact of the red templars. Several of our troops have been lost to red lyrium poisoning, many more suffered its effects at the last battle against Venatori forces.”

Hawke stared at the ceiling.The dread of both topics creeping down his shoulders and into his spine, needling away at his doubts and fears. He felt suspended, waiting for Cullen to tell him what these things had to do with one another, what they would do.

“The Inquisitor is set to arrive back in Skyhold in a few days.” Cullen explained, “The return of the Grey Wardens will buy us a bit of distraction, but we need to be preemptive in regards to Fenris.”

Return of the Grey Wardens? Hawke vaguely remembered Varric mentioning there was news of them when they had last spoke. He didn’t have the capacity to think about that right now, “So, what is your plan?”

Cullen blinked up at him, “The Inquisitor has a plan.” He said it with a wariness that Hawke was sure he wouldn’t have heard in his voice if this was the middle of the day and Cullen was well rested. “However he wanted me to ask you for permission to move forward, and see how you felt about it.”

“Shoot.” Hawke nodded at the paper as he crossed his arms. He trusted Sabrae, but he didn’t trust that Cullen believed the plan would work.

“The Inquisitor plans to hold a judgment,” Cullen’s eyes were scanning the letter before him, “And to offer a trade to Fenris, a pardon in exchange for the capture of Magister Danarius.”

The wind whistled through the mountains, the sound echoing in the empty room as the two men stared at each other.

“He wouldn’t.” Hawke’s voice broke. He was losing control of the situation, what little control he had. He was losing Fenris like sand through his fingers.

“That’s why you would go with him.” Cullen said slowly. “Magister Danarius is extremely knowledgeable and researched in using red lyrium, as well as how to ward against it. He is invaluable to the Inquisition as a prisoner, more so then Fenris is, it’s possible the people would accept it as justice for the assassination of Queen Anora.”

Hawke shook his head, “You won’t be able to capture him.”

“Fenris may be capable.” Cullen rose his eyebrows at Hawke, smoothed the paper he had been referencing. Hawke could see were Sabrae had inked in a series of dark hearts at the bottom of the letter. “The Inquisitor wanted you to know before he arrived, he wanted you to think on it and agree before he does anything.”

“Fenris won’t agree to those terms.” Hawke’s mouth stretched into a tight smile, darkly imagining Fenris in shackles at a judgment declaring how he would rather die. 

“He doesn’t have much of a choice.” Cullen said evenly. “Neither do you, or any of us for that matter. You will need to convince him, we can only protect him so far as he is willing to work with us.”

Hawke nodded slowly, though he was not completely convinced. The chances of talking Fenris into going after his ‘master’ and him agreeing were extremely slim. But he guessed he should have just assumed that their situation had a time limit, after all he couldn’t keep Fenris in a cell for the rest of his life, he just wished he had more time.

“I will think on it.” Hawke said then, unfolding his arms. “You’re going to write back to Sabrae?”

Cullen nodded, a faraway look in his tired eyes. 

“Tell him I’m grateful for everything he’s doing for Fenris, I understand that we are not very important in the grand scheme of things.” Hawke nodded to himself. “You’ve done well for yourself Cullen.”

Cullen’s ears went red as he folded up the letter, “Yes well, the Inquisitor is quite sentimental. It will…” He took in a tired, shaky breath, “It will be good to have him back at Skyhold.”

Skyhold was quiet as Hawke made his way back to the main hall. Only a few people lingered, speaking to each other in hushed voices or walking through with an armload of cleaning supplies or documents. He looked over to the throne at the end of the hall, a simple wooden thing with only a humble Dalish banner hanging over it. Hawke had never seen the Inquisitor sitting upon it, or anywhere near it. He tried to image Sabrae sitting there, his small frame perched on the edge of the seat, looking down at a prisoner in chains. Hawke couldn’t picture it, although he knew it had happened before.

He hovered for a moment, weighing whether he would go back to Fenris or return to his own quarters. He wondered what he would return to, after he had told Fenris they were romantic, years into the black hole of Fenris’ memory. He wondered how he would try to convince Fenris to go after Danarius with him. It all seemed hopeless, too heavy, too complicated for right now.

With a sigh Hawke turned in the direction of his quarters, hoping he would have a clearer mind after a long sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of this chapter, a lot of life things got in the way of getting this chapter written. I hope it was worth the wait! As always thank you for all your support <3

  


Fenris dreamt of fire.

 

The fires had burned through all the cities in his dream. Every stone street, sea washed waterfront and row of warehouses had burned in one dream or another. The smoke had filled the sky and choked Fenris as he fought, red blood across his hands and splattered over his breastplate. The places had names now. The cities had streets with businesses and homes, and the men and women around him had faces that he could occasionally see through the black smoke.

 

He had been here so many times before. He had walked these streets in dreams, then memory, and in dreams once more. He was tired. The streets were filled with figures made of smoke and fire that bled when he cleaved through them with his blade. They kept coming and those at his side continued to fight, waves of magic and showers of red-tailed arrows flying from overhead and wiping away the faceless enemy. Fenris did not want to fight anymore, knew that he must, but wanted just a moment of peace.

 

A hand clasped his shoulder and Fenris’ sword fell away from his bloodied hands. The hand turned him away from the battle wordlessly, smooth as the city street became the enclosed walls of a darkened room. A fire crackled in a grand fireplace, the only light in the room, and Fenris shrugged off his armor to recline in a soft armchair. Soft fabric under his fingers as he sunk into the chair, the fire dancing before him as Hawke sat in a matching armchair beside him.

 

Hawke opened his mouth but Fenris could not make out his words. The tangled syllables circled around Fenris, warm and soothing. He was glad he did not have to fight any longer, although he thought he could hear the battle waging on outside. It was good to just be, to just sit and be at peace. Hawke sat forward and reached out to Fenris’ hand where it laid on the chair’s arm. His fingers calloused and longing.

 

Fenris woke to muffled voices in the hall beyond the cell. He rubbed an eye and glanced up towards the crack in the wall, the night beyond was black as the torchlight illuminated snowflakes. Varric had left a few hours ago, and from what Fenris could gauge it was nearly time for Hawke to take his midnight shift

 

He sat up and tried to roll out the kink in his neck under the Venatori collar. His head was aching from his dream and from the dull beats in the red lyrium as it fought to regain its strength in the cold cell. It had been weeks since he was stolen from the battlefield and he wondered where his Master was now and what he was thinking.

 

His Master had searched for Fenris for _years_  once before. Even if Fenris was now unsure and confused as to the nature of his disappearance, there was no reason to think his Master wasn’t searching for him or waiting for him to return. Shame rolled in Fenris’ stomach, all his weaknesses had led him to question and doubt his Master. The truth of what happened should not matter to him, his Master would have good reason to tell him a different version of the truth. His Master had intended to keep him strong and safe, and he knew what was best.

 

Fenris had to stop questioning. He needed to. He should have never gone along with his captors in the first place.

 

He looked down at his now battered copy of _The Tale of the Champion_  and found he couldn’t imagine leaving it unread. He needed to reach the ending, to piece together the story that unraveled from the pages and stitched together the fragments in his mind. He did not know why he couldn’t just _remember_ , but he had spent so long repressing and killing the broken memories and the rebellious thoughts in his head he feared he had slain them completely.

 

At the very least, reading had distracted him from the more pressing matters that were about to catch up with him. Hawke had told him that the Inquisitor would soon return, and he told him the deal the Inquisitor planned to offer him for his freedom. Hawke had expected an answer from Fenris, clearly, but Fenris gave him nothing to go on. The further he could distance himself from Hawke the better.

 

Fenris did not want to make decisions, and he did not want to follow someone who made him this confused.

 

Fenris’ ears perked to the lock in the door shifting, straightening further and forcing his anxieties to melt away from his face. The door opened and Varric walked in.

 

“Good evening!” Varric grinned and held up a bucket he had carried in with him. “Got you some things to bathe with. I remember you being particular with your soaps and whatnot so I ‘borrowed’ a few things for you to choose from.”

 

“Where is Hawke?” Fenris squinted at the dwarf, this was unusual.

 

Varric rose an eyebrow and smirked at the question, Fenris decided to ignore it. “He’s visiting with a Grey Warden friend of his. Thought he could use some time away. The judgment is going to be in a hour or so.”

 

Fenris stiffened, he had expected to have more warning. He had no reason to expect they would warn him more than they already had, he was sure no other prisoner was told their judgment before they were put before the Inquisitor. It did not make sense to happen to a regular prisoner. It further solidified that Fenris was an exception, that what Varric and Hawke were telling him were in some way true. It was still too confusing and Fenris was tired of being haunted by things he could not remember.

 

“Ah,” Fenris answered, blinking blankly at the bucket Varric dropped at the other side of the bars.

 

“You said you wanted to clean up before the judgment.” Varric reminded him as he sat down on the stool. “Obviously, I mean, who wouldn’t? I didn’t know if you’d want new clothes or what you would want if I was to find you something, so hopefully this will do. Someone is going to bring hot water and a guard is gonna come to unlock the cell. It’s a whole production with all this protocol apparently.”

Fenris neared the bucket of soaps, eyeing them with an interest he could not hide. There were three soaps wrapped in cloth and a few corked bottles. He had not properly washed since before he was captured, and the thought of cleaning up was more comforting than he could have predicted.

 

He pulled a few of the products out from between the cell bars, stared at them blankly as he tried to remember what scent he was bathed with back home in Minrathous. The baths at his Master’s estate were lavish, steaming pools with a dozen bath slaves that plucked bottles, vials, and bars from vast shelves. They knew which scents and concoctions went with which slave, what they all did to the skin and hair. Fenris had no idea. He smelled at the bars and bottles experimentally, an anxiety growing when none of them smelled like what his Master preferred him in.

 

But he had to choose something and eventually decided on a bottle with soap that reminded Fenris of the orange trees when they were in blossom in the training yards. It smelled like home, it smelled of when Fenris would practise his forms and his swordwork with the other slaves before the red lyrium took all that away. It was comforting, and he felt his Master would probably approve.

 

“Why is the judgment being held in the middle of the night?” Fenris looked up at Varric after putting the other soaps back.

 

“So that no one will be there.” Varric laughed, the sound was familiar and not just from the past weeks. “Keeper’s pulling a lot of strings to make this work. If any nobles showed up they would argue him down, try and get you beheaded. Fereldens aren’t friendly about assassinations apparently. You won’t have anything to worry about though, they didn’t even announce the judgement was happening ‘til now I think.”

 

The lock in the door shifted and Fenris stepped back, silenced as a guard walked in with a bucket of steaming water. He was in full armor and draped with the heraldry of the Inquisition and Fenris could not stop himself from squaring his shoulders and glaring him down. Last Fenris had seen men like him was on the battlefield, when Fenris was forced from his Master’s side to slay them. He noted the sheathed sword and the dagger at the guard’s side, tried to ignore how the firelight reflected in his armor reminded him of the steel facades of the gladiators.

 

The man put up a gauntleted hand in warning, red light reflected in the steel and Fenris realized his brands had sparked to life at the perceived threat.

 

“Stand back prisoner!” The man ordered, eyes darting to Varric as the dwarf slowly rose to his feet with his hands out.

 

“Hey, it’s alright, he’s fine.” Varric said to the guard before looking Fenris in the eye, “Right Fenris? He’s just going to open the door for a second, he’s not going to hurt you. Is that alright with you? Just to open up the cell for a second?”

 

The red rolled sluggishly in Fenris’ brands, thick and slow, like a dragon opening a single eye from where it slept. The order had bristled against Fenris, the man’s raised voice prickled down his spine and Fenris did not want the guard anywhere near him. But Varric’s response, the way he asked _permission_  from Fenris confused the feelings. Fenris was a prisoner, and he- He was in no position to grant permissions or make decisions and yet they kept expecting it of him. The red lulled back into its cold-induced slumber and Fenris stepped back deeper into the cell, the red light fading from the armor.

 

The guard and Varric exchanged a glance before Varric made an inviting gesture toward the cell door. The guard slipped the key in, jostling the barred door before it opened. Fenris considered whether or not he could kill the guard, and Varric, and use this as a chance to break for it. The thought fell away as quickly as it came up, and within a second the bucket of hot water was sitting on the cell floor and the guard was locking up the door and leaving.

 

“You have about an hour before we have to collect him.” The guard told Varric as he saw himself out, seeming relieved to leave them alone.

 

Varric turned to Fenris and let out a long breath. There was an anxious edge to his expression even as he smiled. It wasn’t fear, at least not outright. Fenris looked away, uncomfortable with the look in Varric’s eyes, and put his attention on the steaming water put before him and the already-wet rag hanging from the bucket’s lip.

 

Fenris would have preferred cold water, he was unsure of how his cold-lulled brands would respond to the heat. He had been comfortable in the cold cell even when Hawke or Varric pulled their coats and cloaks closed. But he supposed they wouldn't have known to get him cold water, and he wouldn't have enough time to wait for it to chill with the judgment coming so soon.

 

Without a hint of hesitation Fenris stripped the black leathers from his body. He pulled his leggings off first, needing to fiddle with the collar’s straps around his shoulders before he could remove his tunic.

 

As soon as the leather dropped to the stone floor Varric made a panicked sound of surprise, “Ahh,” Fenris looked up to see the dwarf avert his eyes and turn on his heels to face the wall, “Wow, ok, you know, I always _wondered_  how far those tattoos of yours go but I really- Hahaha- I didn’t need to see them. You got to warn people before you do that.”

 

Fenris slowed to an awkward stop, half nude as he tried to unbuckle the straps around his shoulders. A strange shame washed over him, his ears burning as he turned away to further hide his body. Varric’s response was unexpected. Fenris had disrobed in front of _many_  free men in many contexts and none had ever reacted with embarrassment, or had any thought to look away for _Fenris’_  sake. None had ever treated him as anything... Above what he was. But Fenris found he _was_  uncomfortable with the thought of this familiar dwarf seeing him. And it was strange, Fenris never had the inclination to hide himself or even consider what he wanted.

 

“My apologies.” Fenris said quietly as one of the collar straps fell loose on his shoulder.

 

Varric chuckled, “You’re ok, Fenris.”

 

Fenris undid the other shoulder strap and slid out of the black tunic, now completely bare save for the thick collar around his neck. Wind trailed into ice-cold breezes through the crack in the cell and Fenris hoped it would be enough to counteract the hot water. He wrung out the rag and dabbed the orange-scented liquid into it until it lathered and scrubbed himself. The smell was refreshing and he could already feel the sweat and grime that was caked into his skin lift away. His brands did not hurt when he brushed them, despite the lukewarm temperature, but he still feared how they would react to the hot water. The slumber the red lyrium had taken in the cold had been such a relief, to the point that Fenris hoped he would never have to leave the icy cold of the Frostbacks.

 

He remembered how his Master had lined his hands with ice to caress his face. How his Master told him that, once this was all over, he would take the red lyrium from his markings and restore him to what he once was. Fenris hoped that his capture would not somehow take that chance away from him, that his Master would not withhold it when Fenris returned. If Fenris could return. If Fenris could find him. If Fenris returned.

 

Fenris wrung out the rag again and dropped it into the water. He was covered in soap and half-scrubbed grime. The water was hot to the touch and he pulled his red-lined fingers away at the sear. He would wait a moment, so that either the water would cool or he would have the willpower to push through the heat. He pushed the wet hair from his eyes, staring out at the black mountains past the cell.

 

“Hawke said that he and I were romantic.” Fenris forced the words out, this being the first time it felt safe to say to Varric now that he couldn’t see his face.

 

There was a pause, “Oh.” Varric answered, “Yeah.”

 

“Is it true?” Fenris asked when Varric said nothing more.

 

A sigh, “I don’t think _I’m_  the person you want to discuss it with. And I…” There was a pause, Fenris could hear Varric shuffling on the spot uncomfortably, “I think what matters more is what you want from here on out.”

 

The water was hot as Fenris reached in for the rag, balled up at the bottom of the bucket. The red in his hand lit and heated up, glowing in the bucket before Fenris pulled it out. The lyrium responded as ripples in a pool, as if the beast that lived in them was turning its eyes back to Fenris. Fenris hurried as he let the water run over him, the red lighting up like embers in a fire when the heat rolled over them. They were hot, hotter than the water, stoked and waking in his limbs. Sweat prickled at his brow as he scrubbed off the soap, the red stretching inside of him and plucking claws along his veins and inside of his mind.

 

_“You have let your captors tame you, what would your Master say? You have swallowed their lies and they will force you to turn and sink teeth into the hands that saved you.”_

 

_“You ungrateful creature.”_

 

_“Worthless broken thing.”_

 

The bucket toppled over, the water dark as it ran and spread across the flagstones. Fenris snatched his leathers as the water spread, watching hopelessly as the sudsy water rushed to the blanket he had been sleeping on, soaking it. He stumbled over to grab the _Tale of The Champion_  too late, the back cover and a portion of the pages already soaked through.

 

“Oh shit,” Varric said from behind him. Fenris looked over his shoulder to see the dwarf staring at the water on the ground, still giving Fenris his privacy. “Ah, that’s fine, I can get you a new bed roll. Do you need anything, you alright?”

 

Fenris blinked down at the soaked book in his hand, the pages stuck and swollen. He shook his head, then remembered Varric could not see, “I am fine.”

 

A corner of the cell was untouched by the water and Fenris dropped his leathers and book there before wiping away the last of the soap. He dropped the rag back into the empty bucket, shaking himself off of the excess water before slipping his leggings back on. He pulled on the tunic, closing it in the front where it crossed over his stomach, his chest bare and the lines of lyrium there _glowing_. The leathers were coarse against his skin, the worked in dirt and sweat rubbing where he had just cleaned. He went to close the collar straps where they looped under his arms and found he could not reach properly. He dropped his hands, considered if he should ask someone to do them back up, but decided against it.

 

Fenris did not want to go to the judgment.

 

“I am ready.” Fenris announced, turning back to the dwarf who finally turned from the wall.

 

“Oh, you’re all-” Varric winced when he looked at Fenris, “Glowing.”

 

The red seared in response, not yet lulled by the cold, Fenris feared it would not quiet by the time the guards came for him. It coiled inside him, tense, barring its teeth at the comment. Images of red crystals danced in Fenris’ mind, the columns of red that pierced and crackled through the bodies of his victims. The heat boiling up. The red was reaching for his mind, looking for the loosened stitches in his memory, the doubts that Fenris had allowed to grow in his absence from his Master.

 

He did not want to hear what the red wanted to hiss in his ear. He did not want it. He ran his hands over his arms, trying to will it to recess. It wanted _out_. It had been too long since it had pulled out from his brands into ridges and crystals and blades and it demanded it from him. He could feel his brands hardening and rising under his hands, like the deep breathing of a monstrous beast.

 

_“Your Master has not saved you. You can never be saved from what you have done.”_

 

Fenris closed his eyes. He had not done anything. He had not done anything wrong. Had he? He could not help that he was bested and captured, he could not escape the cell with the Venatori collar on, and he… he had entertained his captor’s lies, hadn’t he? He allowed himself to be toyed with and undo the work his Master had done to restore him. He was in no position to question, to desire or have a decision that was not one his Master would have him make. His Master would be displeased. Had he done any of these things with the Venatori, with his Master overseeing him, he would have been beaten and flogged. And yet…

 

The red burned and eased. The kindling it had running out as the wind chilled Fenris’ wet skin. Snowflakes fluttered into the cell as the water on the flagstones began to freeze under his feet. The red hissed, raked its teeth against him as it fell back into slumber within. The glow darkened to its regular dim candle-glow. But the damage and the doubt remained.

 

Varric’s eyebrows knitted, his mouth opened to speak as the door opened again. Fenris flinched as three armoured guards entered, one of them carrying manacles that jangled where they hung. The cell door was unlocked and Fenris’ ears pinned as he backed into the corner, knowing he could rip the guards to shreds but knowing it would be at the cost of having the red beast awake and prowling within him again.

 

Fenris was turned and his hands were bound, loosely but still bound. He could phase out of them without effort if he needed to. They handled him gently compared to the slave drivers the Venatori tasked with managing him. Gauntleted hands gripping a shoulder, but only putting the most minimal of pressure to suggest his movement as they walked him out of the cell. None of them touched his collar, ignoring the ring of the lock where they could have chained him and pulled him. Varric told them to ease off, seemingly unimpressed with the gentle way they moved Fenris.

 

Fenris did not understand.

 

They led him into the hall and Fenris was suddenly reminded that he had seen nothing of the fortress he had been kept in besides his cell. The hall directly outside of his cell was narrow and interestingly did not seem to have other cells near his, unless they were similarly hidden.  They guided him up ancient steps, the stone on each worn softly by the thousands of footfalls that had passed through. It was not until the second floor that the walls were decorated, old tapestries showing a western Andraste leading armies and other likenesses.

 

By the fourth floor, the guards opened a sturdy wooden door that led to a dimly lit and warm hall. Fenris’ feet met thin carpet, the walls were now lined with various heraldries that Fenris did not recognize. The red within stirred at the warmth and the hand on his shoulder moved, Fenris wondered if the guard had felt it heat up under his gauntlet. The red lyrium lazily rolled and reminded Fenris of when he had been escorted like this into the Dog Manor, when the Venatori had him pressed to the carpet and humiliated for their entertainment. It sneered and laughed, heating up, and reminded him that he was betraying them, that he was ungrateful.

 

Fenris expected to see workers or servants in the halls, since they were clearly the halls that connected the kitchens and work areas to studies and bedchambers. But he saw no one, even this late at his Master’s estate there would be slaves working well into the night. Did the Inquisition have no one else but the handful of men escorting him? Were they warned that Fenris would step through, and hidden themselves from the halls? The red was twisting inside of him, looking for the traps and lies the fortress held.

 

Through more doors and twisted halls and Fenris was led out into the main hall. The ceiling vaulted, the fires roaring, and heraldry in deep greens fluttered off scaffolding high above. The hall was nearly empty and their arrival echoed in the large space. Long tables pointed towards a raised throne, only a handful of people gathered near it, all turning as Fenris was guided to the empty space before the throne.

 

Hawke was there, standing off to the side. Fenris’ stomach fluttered, a strange fear and embarrassment shaking there as the red stretching within him to hiss. The heat was increasing within, the red picking at Fenris to fish out every nightmare that Hawke had been in. Every fractured memory that was picked out, now whole or at least grown. Images of Kirkwall and the deep roads and red lyrium veins vivid and now _familiar_  in Fenris’ mind. The red thrashed, hotter still, turning to feed on the confusion instead. The emotions that Fenris did not understand. It mocked, clawing at Fenris’ doubt and fear of Hawke instead.

 

_“He is lying, you are scared of his lies, only an ungrateful slave would prefer him for a master.”_

 

Fenris tore his eyes away from Hawke, looking instead to the scribes that stood ready with their quills, the elvhen Grey Warden that gave Fenris full eye contact, and a handful of people that Fenris did not care about. All unarmed, all weak, Fenris could easily kill everyone in the hall and flee. But he did not know the way out, did not know if an army waited beyond the keep. He would wait.

 

A door opened and a man in fur and armor emerged, hand on his sword as he narrowed his eyes at Fenris’ presence. He felt familiar, perhaps he had been at the battlefield at the Venatori keep. He was followed by an Antivan woman, carrying a writing board with a dripping candle who did not look directly at Fenris. The elvhen Inquisitor stepped out, his silk and fur robes fanning behind him as he marched directly to the throne. He did not sit upon it however, he stood in front of it, aloft and over Fenris’ gaze, as his companions stood on either side of him.

 

Fenris had the impression that prisoners were pushed to their knees here, to be set lower in front of the Inquisitor. But the guards hesitated, deciding to simply take a step back and allow Fenris to stand with his wrists bound.

 

“As all present are very aware of,” the Antivan woman broke the silence, looking down at her board, “Fenris committed the assassination of Queen Anora of Ferelden in Denerim while enslaved by high-ranking Venatori cultists. While his own agency and willingness in this act is debateable, the assassination was extremely public, with witnesses of this event standing with us tonight.”

 

Fenris looked to Hawke, who was pointedly staring away from him at the woman speaking. So, he _had_  been there that night.

 

“Fenris himself has made no recorded statement on the matter.” The woman stopped and inclined her head to the Inquisitor.

 

The elf cleared his throat and spoke with quiet authority, “Before I begin, is there anything you would like to say Fenris?”

 

Fenris could feel all the eyes in the room on him. He wondered what they expected him to say, what they _wanted_  him to say. He did not want to talk about the assassination. He had done it away from his Master, manipulated by the Venatori who were tormenting his Master and threatening him. It didn’t matter if Fenris had been willing or not. Unleashing the red lyrium in that way had frightened him, the red tailed arrow Hawke had shot might as well have struck something much deeper inside of him. Fenris did not want to be executed for this murder, but he would not renounce his Master to his captors.

 

When Fenris said nothing the eyes all turned back to the Inquisitor, who waited a moment further before he continued, “It is my understanding that you were a slave to the Venatori, and that any actions you took while enslaved to them were not of your own will. To punish you for these actions would be the same as punishing a blade instead of the one who wielded it.”

 

“However,” the Inquisitor continued, inclining towards the scribes that were furiously recording his words. “This is not a small crime, and we have a responsibility to our Ferelden allies in this time of need. In this case we will offer you a deal, Fenris. Our intelligence has gained the locations of the remaining operating Venatori, including your previous Master.”

 

The red lit, growling, burning hot and choked Fenris from the inside.

 

“You are to act as an agent for the Inquisition, as a prisoner, and with a group of men of my choosing you will capture Magister Danarius and bring him to us so we may judge him for his actions in the Venatori. Pending his judgment, I will judge you again and potentially grant you freedom. Do you agree to these terms?”

 

All Fenris had to do was say yes. All he had to do was say yes and Hawke would walk him straight back across Thedas and back to his Master. They would be in small numbers and Fenris would not be locked within a cell and Fenris could go back. The red was burning up inside him, seething over the trickery and lies and prowling around the rebellious thing that had been growing inside of Fenris these weeks. The small light inside that kept him reading, that had asked Hawke all those questions night ago, the light that wanted him to turn and look to Hawke now…

 

Fenris turned and met Hawke’s eyes, even as the red glowed bright in his brands and demanded to see the man’s blood spilt on the floor. Fenris would go back to his Master. He would. Hawke would take him.

 

“Yes.” Fenris answered.

 

The Inquisitor's shoulders relaxed, “Fenris I need you to be advised that this deal will be revoked should you turn against the agents of the Inquisition or in any way harm the Inquisition or its purpose. Any danger directly posed to our agents will be met with swift action. Should this mission fail in any other way, the terms of our deal will be revoked and new negotiations will begin. Do you understand?”

 

Fenris did not have a choice. He had known that before. And he had known when he agreed. But now it settled inside of him heavily, the red lyrium expanding and burning where it touched. He had no choice. It was side with the Inquisition or death.

 

Fenris nodded in response, eyes trailing away to the stone under his feet. After a few official statements to seal their deal, the guards moved to take him away, back to the cell to wait. It all happened so fast. _”You have betrayed all you know”_  the lyrium whispered, even as Fenris tried to make it understand that he had no intention of following through. It did not listen. The act itself was wrong and Fenris had failed as a slave.

 

He turned to find Hawke’s eyes as he was led through a door, a weight sinking his heart when he met the man’s eyes.

  
  
  
  



	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just not going to promise anything in a timely matter again maybe. Haha, thanks to everyone who is sticking through this erratic update non-schedule, you guys mean so much to me ♥
> 
> I've been waiting to write one of these scenes for a long time, I hope the wait was worth it ♥

Snow fell slowly outside the library window, visible only by the reflections of the light from the lantern on the table. It was late and Elias yawned loudly as he leaned back in his chair next to Hawke who was scanning over the maps and documents spread across the table. Anything to keep him from meeting the eyes of the strangers at the meeting.

“The Venatori have scattered from the Western Approach, we only have a small window of time to intercept them before they regroup and attempt to regain their power.” The hooded agent was sweeping a black-gloved finger across the map. He had been speaking so fast that Hawke had not even caught his name before he began to present the intelligence that Leliana had sent for them. 

“The Approach is too wide an area for a group our size to search.” One of the strangers chimed in, a lean and war-worn Orlesian woman. Her forearms were striped with battle scars, light leather under armor worn in place of a winter cloak. Cherrelle, she had introduced herself before the meeting started. “There are caves and old fortresses and ruins for miles around and it is unsafe to wander about aimlessly, if the heat doesn’t get you-”

“The darkspawn are crawling all over out there.” Elias folded his arms behind his head. The faraway look and demeanor he had carried when Hawke had last travelled with him had doubled, becoming dark and tainted somehow. Hawke had heard rumors of what the Wardens had been doing before the Inquisition stepped in, but had not had the courage to ask Elias about it since he had returned. 

“I was going to say phoenixes, serah, but yes them too.” Cherrelle rose her eyebrows at Elias. 

“And both are why you two have been approved for the mission.” The hooded agent was obviously impatient with the interruptions, rapping his finger against the table to focus them as he turned to Hawke. “Cherrelle has been the head of scouting in Orlesian territory, she knows the region better than anyone. And your Warden friend should be enough to handle the darkspawn.”

A tight smile stretched across Elias’ face and Hawke kicked at one of his feet under the table before the elf could respond. Elias jumped as his face fell, shooting Hawke a look before he slumped in his chair. 

If the agent had noticed the exchange he didn’t show it. He instead turned to the scribe and the diplomatic specialist that Josephine had sent for their small meeting, “Orlais has confirmed that they will not interfere with the mission, correct? We don’t want them to attempt to take the prisoner for leverage with Ferelden.”

Hawke closed his eyes for a moment as he crossed his arms. The judgment had finally revealed Fenris to all at Skyhold, although there was barely anyone there to witness, it the news had spread quickly. The secret that Hawke had been too happy to keep was revealed, and now Hawke was exposed to strangers referring to Fenris as prisoner if not _worse_. No one had kind words or well-wishes for the newly rescued Fenris, or for Hawke. They were tangled in a political web bigger than Hawke wanted to try and fathom.

“We have received official word,” The woman diplomat nodded, producing an official looking document. “They respect and honor the Inquisition as their ally and will not interfere with our prisoners or indentured agents, including Ser Fenris.”

Elias made a sideways glance to Hawke, but looked away when Hawke did not react.

“Perfect.” The agent looked back to Hawke, “Our spies saw Magister Danarius travelling to the Western Approach, however this was before their fortress was taken. Since then we have a handful of witnesses who have seen Venatori in the area but-” He pulled a document from the table, a recorded interrogation. “The prisoner Crassius Servis has supplied us with names and a series of Venatori holds and camps in the approach. When he was questioned about Magister Danarius he was able to narrow down the possible locations for us. So far his information has checked out, and we will be in contact should anything new arise.”

The Inquisitor had returned to Skyhold from the Western Approach with the Wardens and with several Venatori prisoners. Hawke had not been able to bring himself to witness the judgments of any of them, but knew that Elias had gone to every single one. It was all too much to follow, too much information and too many complications that Hawke did not need to cloud his mind when he had to head up this mission. 

Hawke nodded blankly as the agent pointed out the locations on the map, Cherrelle sitting forward to take note of each. She had been volunteered to Hawke’s mission by Cullen not only for her knowledge of the region, but also because she was Orlesian. The Ferelden members of the Inquisition’s forces had not taken kindly to the news about Fenris.

“Harding will escort you through the Frostbacks, she knows roads that are safe but scarcely travelled.” The agent was gathering up his documents, sorting the map and scrolls that were for them away from his own on the wide table. “You will meet her at dawn at the Skyhold gate with the prisoner prepared for the mission. Should you need any equipment or provisions the Inquisition will supply you, Cherrelle is familiar with the procedure. Any questions?”

The scribe finished scratching a line of text and fanned his hand over the parchment before he looked up expectantly. Cherrelle had asked her questions about the locations and sat back in her chair, the diplomat bowed her head slightly and Elias stared straight at Hawke.

The question rattled around in his head dangerously before Hawke sat forward and asked, “I’d like to give Fenris a sword, do I need permission for that?”

The table was silent. The scribe and the diplomat’s eyes both went wide, Cherrelle’s eyebrows pitched and the agent’s mouth became a hard line. Out of the corner of his eye, Hawke saw Elias bite back a smirk.

“It…” The agent frowned as he adjusted his stance at the table, “It is my understanding that the prisoner can summon _red lyrium_ at will. You wish to have him armed as well?”

Hawke’s inhaled shakily, “Yes. Fenris has always been a skilled swordsman and I would prefer he use steel over the red lyrium, wouldn’t you?”

Cherrelle tilted her head from across the table, something in her expression softening before she turned to the agent, “It does sound preferable, does it not?”

The agent looked from the swordswoman to Hawke and then down to his notes, eyes scanning quickly for anything that could give him an excuse to tell Hawke not to equip Fenris. 

“The Inquisitor informed me that the prisoner would travel as any agent to the Inquisition but he, he must have-” He flipped pages and frowned further before he shoved the papers under his arm, “The Inquisitor said that the Inquisition would supply for every need for this mission, so, I suppose if you want a murderer to have a sword then that is your prerogative, Ser Hawke.”

With that the agent took his leave, signalling the end of the briefing. The scribe and the diplomat followed after him after a polite farewell. The three of them remained, Cherrelle breathing a laugh as she gathered the maps and papers and bound them tightly.

“I think I will like traveling with you, serah Hawke.” She smiled at Hawke, lines creasing about her blue eyes. “The commander briefed me on your history with our charge, and I appreciate your passion and your determination. I will do my best to keep us safe out there.”

Hawke was taken aback, about to answer when she stood abruptly. He scrambled to stand, feeling like he had to say something when she instead continued, “I will speak to the armorer and the supply warden, when you are ready I will be waiting there for you.”

Cherrelle left, leaving Hawke and Elias alone in the private nook of the dark library. Hawke sunk back down into his chair, wondering if he had time to get some sleep before preparing for their departure at dawn. But it was only a couple of hours away and there was still so much to do. Hawke had been so busy with meetings, getting dragged to war table briefings and having to sit up late going over the terms of Fenris’ transition from prisoner to agent. Hawke had a hunch that the Inquisition had swept him up into as many official meetings as possible to protect him from the wrath of the Ferelden nobles and diplomats that had been calling for appeals in Fenris’ case. Hawke had heard more than one threat thrown at him when he crossed the busy main hall to enter the war room. He wondered how bad it really was.

Elias sat quietly next to Hawke, flexing and stretching his hands in his lap. One of the mage’s hands was marred with a thick scar that Hawke had never seen before, black and trailing from his palm around to the knuckles of his ring finger. Hawke wondered if it was battle scar, or the blood magic that the wardens were rumored to have been practising. He swallowed hard and looked away, unwilling to pry.

“Figures that this mission is going to just take me back to that stupid desert.” Elias grumbled.

“You can still change your mind.” Hawke sat forward, tried to make eye contact with Elias. Elias seemed more interested in the flickering light inside the lantern. “It’s not too late, I can always have another Warden fill your spot.”

“No,” Elias sighed, “I would rather go with you. I don’t like this place very much... And since Varric isn’t going, you’re gonna need _someone_ to talk sense into you.”

“You’ve been talking to Varric?” Hawke said. 

“Just a bit.” Elias shrugged and finally made eye contact, though his eyes were distant. “You were busy and I wanted to know what was going on with Fenris.”

“Right.” Hawke and Elias had only been able to speak briefly before. Looking back Hawke realized he had not filled him in on what had happened and only talked about the upcoming judgement. “I’m sorry I should have-”

“No.” Elias jumped out of his seat suddenly, straightening his Warden tunic before turning to Hawke. “I get it, lots going on. You should get moving, you gotta get Fenris ready don’t you?”

“I…” Hawke frowned, confused by Elias’ deflection. Elias was young and Hawke had always found him to be melancholy and disaffected, but this felt different. “Are you ok?”

Elias grinned, “I’m _wonderful_ Hawke.”

“I’m sorry I know I-” Hawke stumbled, of _course_ Elias wasn’t ‘ok’. “I know things have been rough but… is there anything I can do?”

Elias’s fake smile faltered and a sliver of vulnerability was revealed in his eyes. “Not unless you can magically undo the past year or so. Past couple months at least. I just want to kill some Venatori, ok?”

Hawke stared, a lump of guilt growing in his throat. He hadn’t asked Elias about the past months, about the rumors or blood magic and demons in the desert. He had barely put together the fact that Elias had been directly dealing with the Venatori on his own. Maker, he thought the kid was dead and had hardly given _that_ more than a thought.

Hawke had been so preoccupied, so focused on Fenris and his own feelings. He had neglected those around him _again_. It was a wonder any of them even wanted to help him. It was exactly what he had done with Varric and even Fenris.

Hawke whispered. “Elias, I’m sorry-” 

“Don’t.” Elias’ eyes met his. “It’s fine. I understand. I don’t want to talk about it just… just go and get Fenris ready alright? We can just pretend all this shit is normal.”

Elias took the lantern from the table and headed for the spiraling stone steps. Hawke jumped up and jogged to catch up to him, meeting his light as they descended the stairs to the lower level of the library. 

Hawke wanted to say _something_.

Elias looked over his shoulder, “Varric told me Fenris is still dangerous.”

Hawke winced, it wasn’t exactly the conversation he wanted to have. 

“A lot happened.” Hawke paused, unsure of how much Varric had told Elias. “He’s made good progress, he still has a chance against the red lyrium.”

Hawke took the lead out of the library, twisting down corridors towards the dungeons. Elias glanced around as they turned, unsure of where exactly he was. 

“Fenris didn’t _look_ ok at the judgment.” Elias said. “I mean, I only saw him once in Kirkwall, by chance, so I don’t know. But I’ve seen those red templars and Fenris looks a lot like them.”

Hawke shook his head, leading Elias down a dark stairway. “No he’s not like them, not at all. One of the Inquisitor’s mages took a look and said that there was magic laced in the brands to protect him from it spreading. Also he was able to see the damage done to his memory with blood magic.”

Elias made a disapproving sound behind Hawke, “ _Sounds_ dangerous.”

Hawke stopped at the landing, only needing to go down one more flight of stone steps to reach Fenris’ private cell. He didn’t want to take Elias down there. He turned instead, his chest burning with a frustration at the young elf. He didn’t want to argue with Elias, he didn’t want to be angry at him. Not when Elias had all but called him out on his own insensitivity. 

“He’s not…” Hawke squared his jaw, willed his anger to settle. “It’s going to be fine. He’s been coming around a lot lately, he’ll remember more soon and maybe once we catch that bastard there will be a way to cure him.”

Elias stared at Hawke, his eyes reflecting like a cat’s in the glow of the lantern. He looked sad, disappointed. Hawke imagined that he must look like a madman, making excuses for Fenris and trying to assert that he would be ok. He must look pitiful. 

Elias’ eyebrows knitted as his mouth flattened, “Hawke I…” He looked away suddenly, his ears pinning. The pause lasted too long. Right as it became uncomfortable Elias looked back, his face void of emotion “If Fenris tries to hurt you, I will kill him.”

The elf turned and stalked away into the dark before Hawke had a chance to react.

-

Fenris stood in the cell as Hawke entered the room. His eyes were pinned on Hawke, his ears perked as his hands opened and closed anxiously. “Is it time?”

Hawke nodded, shutting the door behind him and fumbling in his pouch for the cell key the guards had given him. He was shaking a bit, Elias’ words having brought Hawke’s nerves up to the surface to bubble. Everything seemed to be set against him, against him and Fenris. He had expected his friend to be on his side, but it felt like Varric all over again. Supportive to a point, but in the end, still convinced that Hawke wouldn’t be able to fix this.

“We are set to leave at dawn, so we have a few hours still.” Hawke explained, his fingers finding the key in his pouch. He closed it in his palm as he slowly took it out, as if it might sprout wings and vanish. “We have some things to do first, but we will need to leave before everyone wakes.”

Fenris nodded once, his eyes dropping and focusing on the stone beneath their feet. He had seemed more withdrawn since the judgment. He had asked less questions and demanded no explanations from Hawke even after hours of reading the _Tale of the Champion_. It was unnerving as Hawke was unable to figure out what had caused the change.

“I’m uh, I’m glad you chose to go on this mission with me.” Hawke said. Testing the water.

“‘Chose’?” Fenris echoed. 

Hawke sighed. He wanted to tell Fenris that this wasn’t what he had wanted for him, for them. But the truth was that he wanted nothing more than to hunt down Danarius and make him pay for everything he had done. He hoped Fenris would understand, and soon. This mission could devolve into tragedy if he didn’t.

“I didn’t get to choose either.” Hawke tried with a shrug. It was the truth at least. “But I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you are safe and taken care of Fenris. And at least I can do that better when we are away from here.”

Fenris looked up at Hawke. His expression veiled and unreadable. The red danced in his eyes, like an underlying threat, and Hawke remembered how Fenris had _glowed_ during the judgment. He remembered their fight in the snow. The red lyrium stared out through Fenris’ eyes, not unlike the gleam of demons and magic in the eyes of those lost to things too powerful for them to control. But Hawke believed in Fenris. He had to.

Hawke opened his hand and fumbled the key, “We should get moving.”

Fenris stepped away from the bars as Hawke fitted the key in the lock. Hawke found he was sweating slightly, despite the freezing state of the room and the draft from the broken wall. The lock was removed and the door opened with a small creak and Hawke was standing mere steps away from Fenris with nothing between them.

It was strange, and felt delicate somehow. Hawke couldn’t help but think of wild, dangerous animals he had encountered in tight caves and the moments in space between them cowering and attacking. But Fenris did neither, he simply stood there watching Hawke, as if waiting for direction. Or, more likely, a command.

Hawke’s eyes lingered to the steel and leather collar locked around Fenris’ neck. It was hulking, and Hawke knew its weight from when he had carried Fenris unconscious from the battlefield all those weeks ago. The lock caught the lantern light and Hawke frowned at it.

“I need to get that off of you.” Hawke said, already reaching for his lock pick set.

Fenris’ ears pinned, “What?”

“The-” Hawke nodded towards it, not wanting to name it but knowing the gesture was too vague to understand. “The collar.”

Fenris took an alarmed step back, “No.”

Hawke’s leather bag of picks were already in his hands, but he paused, he wasn’t going to _force_ Fenris to let him take the thing off. But he _needed_ to. “Why not?”

Fenris squared his shoulders, even as something flickered behind the red in his eyes, “It is my Master’s.”

Fenris said it as if that was reason enough. The collar belonged to his master, the collar around his throat denoted that _he_ belonged to Danarius, the man that he had already agreed to hunt down and capture. A wave of anger swept Hawke’s insides, his hand closing tight around his lock picks as he tried to tame it. He had to try and understand Fenris. He had to remember that Fenris would come to his own conclusions in time, and that Hawke couldn’t force him to understand that he was a _free man_.

“It stops you from phasing through things, doesn’t it?” Hawke asked, forcing his voice to remain soft. “If we are going to travel we don’t know what we will run into and I would feel better knowing you have all your abilities at your disposal.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, one of his hands moving to the unbuckled straps that dangled loose from his shoulders. “Why would you want that?” Fenris asked.

“I’m not interested in binding and controlling you, Fenris.” Hawke held back from saying ‘like _they_ do’. “I want to see you free and happy. As much as I can give you, I will.”

Fenris’ face shifted, as if he was about to argue but couldn’t find the words. It was obvious he was struggling with the decision.

“Fenris,” Hawke said, “I _trust_ you. Do you trust me?”

Fenris’ eyes locked with Hawke’s. The red danced within them, settling and stirring in uneven waves as if it was nothing more than an illusion in Hawke’s eyes. Hawke hoped, prayed, that Fenris would say yes. He didn’t know what he would do if Fenris said no.

Fenris did not answer, instead looked down at the lockpicks in Hawke’s hand. “I will be more useful to you if the collar is removed.” 

The answer was stiff, forced, but seemed to hide something within them. 

“Is that a yes?” Hawke asked.

Fenris’ eyebrows knitted for a second before his expression went blank again, “You may remove it.”

Hawke’s chest swelled. His heart burning in the bittersweetness of the moment. It was the closest to a ‘yes’ that he would receive for now, and he would take it. 

He fidgeted with the picks in his hand as he inclined his head slightly towards Fenris, “I’ll need to pick the lock.”

Fenris nodded once before he lifted his chin slightly with an ease and practise that made Hawke pause. 

“It might take a moment…” Hawke said slowly, “It’d be better if you sat down.”

Fenris looked at Hawke, his ears pinning anxiously before he lowered himself and sat cross-legged on the stone ground.

Hawke felt awkward as he edged closer to Fenris, lowering himself and closing the distance between them with his knees on the stone ground. His heart was racing and within a moment he was almost touching Fenris he was so close to him. Fenris watched him as he laid out his picks on the stone next to him and turned to face Fenris.

He was beautiful. Hawke couldn’t help but stare. He hadn’t been this close to him, while he was conscious, for _years_. Even with the red glow in his eyes and the brands a dull red where they were once white, it was _him_. Strands of his white hair almost touching his eyelashes, his lips tensed into a flat line and his eyes fixed on Hawke’s. 

Lost in the moment, Hawke cleared his throat quickly and looked away to try and gather himself. He had to remember the way things are, and remember that this was something that Fenris was trusting him to do. Even being this close was a sign of trust. Hawke forced himself to remember how long it had taken, all those years ago, for Fenris to trust him at all. For Fenris to allow Hawke to sit this close to him. 

Hawke took a pin and a pick from his set and edged a bit forward, trying to figure out how he could reach the lock dangling from Fenris’ throat. He paused, tools in hand, realizing he would need to be much closer to Fenris to even attempt this.

Fenris picked up on the problem quickly, lifting his chin slightly as he pulled his legs closer to himself and leaned forward slightly. Hawke shifted closer, his leg touching Fenris’, the heat from his lyrium-lined leg meeting Hawke’s immediately. Hawke swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task at hand.

The lock was within reach, and as Hawke touched it he felt Fenris bend to further allow him purchase over it. The soft, pliant nature of the action distressed Hawke, but he couldn’t dwell on it. The sooner the collar was off, the better. The lock was silver, not just a mixed metal as Hawke had assumed. It was engraved with designs that eerily matched Fenris’ markings and a disgust rolled through Hawke’s stomach. He didn’t want to imagine Danarius picking out the massive silver lock for Fenris, deciding to have it adorned to match. Dorian had said the collar had been enchanted to _kill_ Fenris if lock was opened by anything other than the matching key. Even though he ensured Hawke the enchantment was removed, it infuriated him to know that Danarius had willingly put Fenris in it.

Hawke shifted himself and the lock until he found an angle where he could pick it effectively and set to work. Fenris was staring at the ceiling, hugging his legs close to his body, and Hawke swore he could feel him _shaking_ through the tremors in the oppressive collar. His heart ached, hurting at the years of slavery that Fenris had to endure, and the trust and growth he was showing in allowing Hawke to remove the symbol of his imprisonment. 

“How long have you been wearing this?” Hawke asked quietly as he worked. He knew the collar was meant for warfare, that slaves in Tevinter didn’t walk around in massive saarebas looking collars. 

Fenris’ eyes darted to Hawke quickly before he shifted and looked away, “Since we sailed from Tevinter.”

Hawke tried to imagine how long that was. “It doesn’t seem comfortable.”

Fenris did not answer. Hawke struggled with the lock, it was complicated and complex. It wasn’t out of his ability, but would take longer than a regular lock. He reached for a different pick and tried again, the new pick giving him a slightly better handle on the tumblers inside the huge lock. 

“They took it off in Denerim.” Fenris offered after a stretch of silence. 

Hawke looked up at him, connecting the dots. Now that he thought back to the assassination, Fenris hadn’t been wearing the collar. It made sense, the Venatori obviously needed him to phase through the castle walls to enter and retreat. But Hawke couldn’t ignore the sad tone in Fenris’ voice as he said it. 

“You didn’t want that?” Hawke asked. The tumblers twitched and closed and nearly broke his pin, Hawke huffed and adjusted and started again.

Fenris kept as still as possible, even though Hawke could still feel the slight tremor. “No.”

“I’m sorry.” Hawke said softly. He wondered what that situation had been like for Fenris, what circumstances surrounded the brutal murder he had been witness to. With how opposed Fenris had been to letting Hawke remove the collar he couldn’t imagine how unhappy he would have been to have his ‘keepers’ remove it. He wondered what it had meant to him.

It was starting to feel normal, being this close to Fenris. But Hawke couldn’t ignore the tension in Fenris’ body, the waves of nervous shakes that racked him. He wished he could comfort Fenris somehow, wrap his arms around him and press kisses against his jaw. But knew the best he could do was hurry up and give Fenris his space back.

The lock clicked open and Hawke let out a long low breath. Fenris shifted, his ears perked at the sound. Hawke turned the lock and slowly slid it off the metal ring, holding the massive collar together. The leather-lined metal sagged slightly as the lock was removed. Fenris leaned back a bit as Hawke retreated from his personal space, silver lock in hand.

“There.” Hawke said quietly. He gathered up his picks and shifted back so there was space between him and Fenris again. He wanted Fenris to take the actual collar off himself, wanted it to be his action and decision. 

Fenris stared at the lock in Hawke’s hand as he slowly let go of his legs and sat more comfortably. The collar sagged from his movement. Fenris reached up to it carefully, slowly pulling the straps apart on his chest and throat and peeling the leather from his skin. Hawke swallowed as Fenris shrugged it off into his hands, the collar left long indents on his brown skin, like a strange inorganic echo of his markings. 

The collar fell into Fenris’ hands, he held it reverently for a moment, staring at it as he rolled a shoulder and then his neck. It dropped to the floor in front of Fenris, as he rose his hands to his exposed neck and shoulders. Fenris’ eyes closed slightly as he rubbed at what was surely sore and irritated skin.

Hawke looked away and down to the collar. It looked unassuming in its pile, powerless, as if it had never caused any sort of effect on either of them. Hawke wanted to throw it into a fire, watch it burn away into ashes. 

“What will happen to it?” Fenris asked suddenly, as if he could hear Hawke’s thoughts.

Hawke looked up, blinking hard at the more familiar image of Fenris that sat in front of him. The markings revealed from the collar’s removal were familiar enough that Hawke could draw them by heart, except their colour. 

He cleared his throat, “I think the Inquisition would want it. They might want to research the enchantments on it, since the Inquisitor wants to try and save more slaves.”

Fenris stared at Hawke without expression, hands kneading his own shoulders and rubbing out the indents in his skin. “And the lock?”

Hawke paused, a lump growing in his throat as he looked up to Fenris. “Did… you want it?”

Fenris looked down at Hawke’s hand where he was clutching the opened lock but said nothing. Hawke wanted to _destroy_ the damned thing, but he couldn’t ignore the look in Fenris’ eyes. And he knew that Fenris would not ask. Reluctantly, Hawke stretched out his hand, offering the silver lock to Fenris.

Fenris took it cautiously, and held it at his side without even looking at it before he stood. Hawke guessed that Fenris wanted to keep it for Danarius, a thought that felt absurd to Hawke but he knew he couldn’t change how Fenris thought. Not quickly, or by force. It was fine. It was harmless.

Hawke stood up next to Fenris, acutely aware of their closeness again, especially now with the collar sitting in a heap on the floor. “You got everything?”

Fenris turned to Hawke, a questioning look on his face, “Sorry?”

“All your things, anything you want to take?” Hawke moved to the cell’s open door, ready to be done with the prison. 

Fenris looked down at his bedroll, where his copy of the _Tale of the Champion_ sat. He reached down and picked it up and flicked its pages before turning back to Hawke, “It’s Varric’s.”

“He gave it to you though.” Hawke said as he put his lock picking kit away. “It’s yours, you can bring it along if you want.”

Fenris visibly hesitated and Hawke was unsure if his inner struggle was regarding ownership of the book or perhaps the idea of taking it on a mission to go find his ‘master’. But after a moment, Fenris tightened his grip on it and stepped forward to follow Hawke out of the cell. 

“Let’s go.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, Fenris is Extremely difficult to write right now. This chapter felt like pulling teeth to get it through, but Im happy enough with it and hope you all enjoy it too. And next chapter we will -finally- be away from Skyhold! As always thanks for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks, you guys keep me going ♥

Fenris followed Hawke out of the cell. The small, stone room held a certain level of comfort and security to Fenris, one he didn’t fully realize until he had been taken from it for the judgement. He had lived in that cell for weeks, the longest he had stayed in one place since he left Tevinter. Leaving it and following Hawke into the dark, unfamiliar halls was both exhilarating and terrifying. 

Fenris had seen the halls outside before but it felt different with his hands unbound and his collar gone. Hawke was stiff as he walked ahead and Fenris did not know if he should consider him his liberator or his captor. 

Fenris refrained from touching his neck, although the exposed skin demanded the comfort of touch. Fenris did not want to appear relieved to be rid of it, not in front of Hawke. It was bad enough that he had quivered and shaked as Hawke picked the lock. Somewhere between Hawke and Varric, Fenris had begun to almost feel _ashamed_ of being a slave.

The red flickered within him. Not warm enough to awaken it yet, but strong enough for it to smell Fenris’ fear. 

The silver lock was cold in Fenris’ fist, and he reminded himself that he could kill Hawke. He could do it now. From a pace behind the man he could call the lyrium and pierce through flesh and bone and leave Hawke’s body behind him as he escaped.

He could. But Fenris would be smarter to do it when he was closer to his Master. It would be foolish to attack now only to be put down by the Inquisition’s armies. But it felt equally foolish to allow this man to lead him straight to his Master, collarless and answering to Hawke like some rebellious runaway slave.

His grip on the Tale of the Champion tightened. That _was_ what he was, according to the book in his hand. A strange version of him he couldn’t quite remember, but now could not fully deny. Every step he made behind Hawke, every show of trust to him seemed to only solidify this forgotten and lost part of him. The Fenris that had spent years away from his Master becoming a stranger to himself, but then recovered and repaired to have forgotten every transgression by his Master. 

Fenris did not know who he was supposed to be. And it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because he had to be what his Master wanted. It didn’t matter what anyone else said. It didn’t matter and they needed to understand that whatever person they had expected when they captured him was gone. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what Fenris wanted.

Hawke stopped at a large wooden door and Fenris realized he had not paid attention to the winding path they had taken, too lost in his thoughts. Hawke turned to him then, eyes wide as if he was surprised to see Fenris behind him at all. 

“We just need to get our equipment together first,” Hawke explained. “The rest of our party is already getting their things and waiting for us. It’s uh, it’s pretty cold outside. Are you going to be ok to walk in the snow like that?”

Hawke’s eyes swept over Fenris’ minimal armor, the black leathers the Venatori had preferred him in despite what his Master might have preferred. The leggings were warm enough but Hawke’s eyes lingered on the simple tunic Fenris wore. It was sleeveless and the deep V that showed his red chest markings felt more bare without the massive collar over it. 

“Yes.” Fenris answered, remembering how the cold snow had been comforting under his bare feet. How the cold numbed out the red lyrium’s bite and voice. 

However, Hawke looked doubtful, a brush of genuine concern coming across his face as he undid the clasp of his cloak. Fenris stiffened as Hawke moved to drape the fur-lined cloak over his shoulders. For a moment Hawke’s arms trapped Fenris between him and the cloak thrown against his back and yet… Fenris felt no danger, none of the anxious nerves he regularly felt when anyone other than his Master moved to touch him. Hawke did not even touch him, simply held out the ends of the clasp for Fenris to take into his own hands.

Fenris clasped the cloak slowly, “I will not be cold.” He said, “The cold is actually… preferable.” 

Hawke shrugged a bit, “Actually, I’m hoping this will hide you a bit while we are still here. Or at least until we can get you your own. You should pull the hood up too.”

Fenris pulled the hood over his head reluctantly, ears twitching at the unfamiliar softness of the fur inside of it. The same fur lay snug against his neck and shoulders, pleasant and stifling at the same time. Feeling anything other than heavy locked leather again his skin was a novelty and it felt nice, despite the warmth.

The door opened and a gush of wind and snow met Fenris’ face. It was cool, inviting, and Fenris closed his eyes and lifted his chin to greet it. His feet met the soft crunch of snow and he wanted nothing more than to pull the cloak off and feel the wind and cold against his liberated throat and shoulders, to feel the snow fall and melt against his red markings there. He wanted to lie in the snow as he had before, without the oppressive collar and without his Master to disapprove.

Hawke tucked his head close to himself and marched through the snow, only looking back for a second to Fenris, just in time to see Fenris taking it all in. A smile snuck onto the man’s face before he looked away and a knot of guilt formed in Fenris’ stomach. That was wrong. It was wrong of him to revel in being away from his Master, and there was something wrong in making his captor smile like that, wasn’t there? But perhaps it wouldn’t matter. 

Perhaps, soon, none of this would matter.

Hawke lead the way through the snow and Fenris remembered to keep his eyes up and take in his surroundings. It was hard to see much of the hold in the early morning dark, the torch lights illuminating only the lower parts of the stone walls before they lead up into the dark sky, nothing but the dotted lights of windows above them. The yard was filled with snow, a path made up of footprints leading from the small door they had come out of to the smaller buildings nestled in the stone walls. Tents were filed along the path, half hidden under the snow, and Fenris remembered the similar tents at the Venatori camps. He wondered what manner of people the Inquisition made camp in the snow, who would come out should they hear him and Hawke creeping in these early hours.

Across the yard they came to a squat stone building decorated with Inquisition banners. Hawke hefted the door open, pulling it against the snow that had been piling up and gestured for Fenris to step inside. 

The room inside was dimly lit, the wood under Fenris’ feet unfinished and rough where it wasn’t wet from the snow. He shook off the cloak, pulling the hood off of his head and the garment off of him as Hawke stepped in close behind him. Three faces looked up at them, the light barely catching their features in the dim room. A man, a woman and an elf. Fenris itched under their steady, unseen gaze.

“Ser Hawke,” The woman greeted, her accent thick Orlesian. “And Ser Fenris, I assume?”

Fenris made a face. That was wrong. Felt wrong at least. Who greeted a _prisoner_ like that?

“Yeah.” Hawke stepped forward, putting himself between Fenris and the strangers. “I’m going to help him find some equipment before we leave.”

The man and the elf were staring and Fenris realized his marking’s glow was obvious in the low light. There was a time Fenris would have glared back at them, reveling in the fear and envy in their eyes, but he did not feel that way now. Perhaps it was the cold.

“Well go right ahead then.” The man said, his voice gruff and rough, as if he had only just been woken up. “Inquisitor signed off on it, anything you need from the stock or the armory is yours. I got some packs with tents and travel goods already made up for each of you, as I was just telling Cherrelle here.”

Fenris looked around the room, noticing now that it was filled with supplies laid out across wooden tables and stacked neatly on towering shelves along the walls. The tables near them were full of folded tents of various sizes and colors, tent poles stacked under the tables of varying thicknesses and lengths. Beyond them was collected cooking ware, flint, lanterns and oil, small first aid kits, lengths of rope, axes, rolls of parchment and bed rolls tied tight. The shelves were packed with what looked like enough clothing to fit a small army. There was no weaponry or armor in sight, although Fenris assumed it was behind the nearby door that the tired man was unlocking.

“You two go ahead.” The woman nodded towards Hawke, “Elias and I can take care of this.”

Hawke nodded quickly and skipped forward, looking back over his shoulder to ensure Fenris was following him. Fenris stepped close behind him obediently, curious as to what ‘equipment’ Hawke had in mind. 

The room behind the unlocked door was darker, lit only by a lantern as they stepped in alone. Steel glinted from all around them, collections of plate mail and helmets that made Fenris jolt still as he mistook them as sleeping gladiators. But they were empty, the room full of armor and weapons laid out across tables and arranged on racks and displays. 

Hawke took the lantern and stepped in, his attention sweeping the room quickly. He turned back to Fenris and narrowed his eyes, Fenris stood still but felt uncomfortable under the scrutinizing gaze. 

“What armor do you want?” Hawke asked as he looked away to a table that held a collection of mismatched leathers.

Fenris exhaled slowly, “What I am wearing will be adequate.”

Hawke smiled stiffly at the table he was rummaging through, “We can do better than ‘adequate’ Fenris. I know what you used to wear, but I don’t know if you would want something different now.”

Fenris blinked, an odd sensation rolled down into his stomach. What he used to wear. He had read the descriptions in the book, recognized it as the old armor his Master had commissioned for him to use for their tour in Seheron. Brown leathers from some exotic creature, ones that would phase with him effortlessly. The design was extravagant, suited to his Master’s tastes, but it had fit him well. He didn’t wonder how Hawke knew, he was well past questioning any of this.

“As you say.” Fenris said blankly. “Equip me as you prefer.”

Hawke looked up at him, a familiar expression of frustration and weariness on his face. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, grabbing things from the table as he migrated to another to fill his arms. 

“How about…” Hawke met Fenris with an armload of armor and leathers, and dropped them to the floor. “You pick from this. If there’s anything unsuitable I can go and find something closer to what you want.”

Fenris frowned at him. He was tired of this, of Hawke treating him as if he weren’t his prisoner, as if they were equal men. It felt… too familiar. Too dangerous to consider as anything other than an oddity. Hawke was too kind to him, too accepting and too accommodating. Fenris couldn’t get used to this, couldn’t let himself meet the familiar ground he recognized between the two of them. His Master would not approve, his Master would be disappointed at best and at worse…

“Hawke.” Fenris said, his voice quiet. The man looked up at him and something in Fenris’ chest ached at the wide, hopeful glimmer in the man’s eyes. “...My current armor is sufficient.”

Hawke’s face fell. He sighed, looking down to pick up one of two metal breastplates that he had dropped to the ground. They were similar to the one Fenris remembered being fit for years ago back in Tevinter. Uncannily so. Hawke held it up for Fenris to see.

“What do you think of this?” Hawke asked. 

The steel breastplate is simple, unadorned, and Fenris can tell from looking at it how light it would be to wear. There is no matching back to constrict the movement in his shoulder blades, the straps thick and supportive without being overly complicated. He imagines, against his best efforts, how it would feel to wear in a battle. Guarding his chest, his heart, hiding the tangle of red markings painting a target for arrows and blades. 

He wonders why his Master and the Venatori had not allowed him this basic security. In a flash he remembers the throne room in Denerim, the guards blades ready to cut him down, and his realization that the Venatori had planned for him to die there. For their enemies to discover their symbol draped across Fenris’ corpse, for the red lyrium to glow brighter after his death and infect the castle. 

Fenris steels himself, swallows hard at the rebellious and traitorous thoughts swimming in his head. “I can fight effectively in that.” 

“You want it then?” Hawke asks.

Fenris looks away and stops himself from biting his tongue, “Yes.”

Hawke holds up the breastplate for Fenris to take. It is heavy in his one hand, his other still grasping both his book and his Master’s lock. Hawke makes a small noise in his throat as he takes it back gingerly, blinking hard before he asks “Can I help you put it on?”

It feels the same as when Hawke removed Fenris’ collar. The man’s hands are careful, needlessly soft, and guide more than they direct. The meekness of his actions is somewhat reminiscent of the bathing slaves in Tevinter, but the fear feels different in Hawke’s fingers. The caution and gentleness is weighted, and is done without cause. Hawke does not need to be soft as he helps Fenris adjust the placement of the armor against his chest, his hands do not need to be timid as they pull and tighten the straps against Fenris’ side. 

Something about it feels… good. Familiar, again, and dangerous. A slight flush reaches Fenris’ ears as he imagines how he would feel if his Master were to see him like this. It’s only armor and it’s nothing and it _does not matter_. But Fenris can’t help but feel that it does. All his old associations with Hawke and torture had long since melted away. But he had not quite put a name to the new feelings and associations Hawke’s slow careful movements rose in Fenris’ broken memory.

But he felt better with the new armor. Safer. Hawke moved away from him and Fenris rolled his shoulders, stretched and nodded with satisfaction at the new breastplate. Hawke met his eyes, but revealed nothing.

Among the things Hawke had picked out Fenris only took a pair of steel bracers to defend his forearms (his old Venatori ones had gone missing between their battle and his capture) and a set of leather sleeves intended as under armor for archers. Hawke had suggested gloves and gauntlets but Fenris refused, the red lyrium in his hands needed to breathe. 

After a couple stretches and a rusty martial form, Fenris was satisfied with the fit of the new armor. Hawke replaced the rejected pieces to their places in the armory and nodded towards the back of the room, “You need a sword.”

Fenris blinked, stopped mid-stretch and met Hawke’s eyes from across the room. 

“Come on, this is something you know I can’t pick out for you.” Hawke took a backwards step to the back wall, where Fenris could see great swords hanging from metal racks.

Fenris had forgotten how to protest, words dying in his throat as he looked from Hawke to the glimmering blades. He had not held a sword since before the red lyrium was forced into his markings. He did not need one. But he would be lying if he tried to tell Hawke he need not _want_ one. Why didn’t Hawke understand that Fenris’ wants were nothing more than mindless fantasties. That he was not entitled to want for anything. He was a prized slave, and good slaves did not exert or voice their wants.

But, Fenris wondered, _did it matter?_

He followed Hawke to the back wall, but kept his eyes down. Did it matter if he indulged here, without his Master knowing? He had already gone so far, trusting his Master’s enemy, happily feasting on his lies and indulging in _reading_ of all things. What was another infraction? What did it matter? Why would it matter?

Without warning the red lyrium sparked to life. It thrashed within his markings, lighting up with a heat that was stifling and unfamiliar in his new armor. It dragged its teeth along Fenris’ veins and burned and hissed _disobedient slave, what’s another infraction amongst hundreds? Another set of lashes against the post. Another punishment to match all the ones you have been begging for with your actions. Master worked so hard to get you back, to fix you, to remove all the poison this man had fed you for years and look at you._

“Fenris?” Hawke stepped back, red light illuminating his face.

 _Unworthy, undeserving of Master’s gift. You make yourself a pet for his enemy._

The red twisted and expanded, Fenris’ hands clamped down on either side of his face as he trembled. The red cackled, pulled apart the threads in his mind, the threads his Master had stitched so lovingly in place. The sky filled with smoke, qunari soaked in blood before raging fires, Fenris’ grip on his sword increasing and he ran forward to defend his new home. Red tailed arrows flying, bolts taking down a qunari sten to Fenris’ right, Varric’s voice broken out above the roaring flames as another qunari fell, _’How many did you get Hawke?’_

Fenris came to as quickly as he fell, gasping and clawing about the stone floor beneath him. The red retreated, as if it had never risen within. Fenris was sprawled on the floor, he found his feet, brushed the hair from his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose until the ground stopped spinning.

“Fenris? Are you ok?” Hawke’s voice is weak, frightened. 

Fenris waved a hand, scooping the book and the lock from the ground as he stands. “Back in Kirkwall…” He tried, unable to look at Hawke, “The qunari invasion… happened. Is that right?”

The was a pause, “Yeah, that happened.”

Fenris nodded to himself. He didn’t need to trust Hawke for that, he remembered. He looked up at the greatswords and curled a fist so tightly his nails nearly cut his palm. “I cannot take a sword.” 

Hawke was slow to respond, Fenris could feel his gaze burning on his skin, “Why not?”

Fenris shook his head. He couldn’t explain.

Hawke made a small noise, “I feel pretty bad actually, about your sword. We kept it at my manor in Hightown, but the place was raided after the uprising and I lost most of the valuables. I guess a Sword of Mercy is pretty valuable.”

Fenris met Hawke’s eyes, disbelief and insult mixed with a quiet recognition as he met the man’s sad eyes. His Sword of Mercy, _his_. His lips threatened to quirk into a smile at the thought, absurd and somehow exhilarating. He remembered its weight in his hands, and wondered if he was remembering it correctly at all.

He shook his head and looked away, a hundred battles in Kirkwall’s streets dancing through his mind. He remembered his old blade, remembered how the lyrium in his hands was able to reveal the inscription upon it. He had seen the swords in display cases in Minrathous and remembered how much his Master had coveted them. The memory coloured then. Darkening at the thought of his Master. 

“If you wish to have me wield a sword again,” Fenris titled his head at the wall before him, a compromise forming in his mind. “Chose one for me.”

“Like a gift.” It was not a question, it was a compromise. “Like your old sword.”

Fenris blinked away from Hawke, the thoughts and half-recovered memories connected, albeit weakly. “Yes, like that.”

Hawke inspected the blades on the wall quietly, pacing before them as he inspected each one patiently. He took one down and held it in his hands. It was nearly Fenris’ height, the pommel long and braided with brown and red leather and the blade itself shone in the low lantern light, too fine and too rich in color to be a simple steel, it was beautiful in its simplicity. 

Hawke laid the blade against his flat gloved hands, turning to Fenris to offer it to him. Strange to think, only weeks ago Fenris would have taken a opportunity like this to cut the man down. The red shifted in his markings and Fenris reminded it and himself, that there would be a time for that. 

Fenris dropped his things on a nearby table and took the sword in hand. It balanced easily as he lifted it, lighter than it looked, Fenris’ hands gripped the pommel tightly as his heart raced. The red within him was moving, shifting and stinging, a warning. He didn’t need this blade. The red would construct all the weaponry he needed from his brands. But the blade felt powerful in his hands, a rush filling Fenris that he could only identify as _liberating_.

Dangerous. The sword was dangerous in more ways than one. 

“This will do.” Fenris’ voice cracked as he lowered it. He should say ‘thank you’ to Hawke, he should show gratitude for this action, this ‘gift’. But the words died where they fluttered in his chest, ashes clinging where he had felt exhilarated moments ago.

“Are you…” Hawke’s eyebrows were upturned, his eyes soft, and Fenris could not bare to look at him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Fenris snapped, a bit too desperate and a bit too forceful. It didn’t matter. Hawke would not challenge or punish him.

“You collapsed on the floor earlier.” Hawke pointed out, though his words were soft and kind. Fenris felt smothered by them. “We never talked about the… the red lyrium. It looked as though it was hurting you.”

Fenris wanted to bare his teeth, to snap at Hawke and tell him not to disrespect his Master’s work. It was none of this man’s business, what did he know? What did he care? Why did it matter.

“You-” Fenris met Hawke’s eyes as he strapped his sword to his back. “-Never talked to me about us being ‘romantic.’”

Hawke’s eyes widened, a streak of fear and hurt piercing through his amber eyes. “Fenris I… Did you want to talk about that?”

Fenris reveled in the guilt and hurt in the man’s face, soaked it up until it created a shield between them. Confusion was so at odds with Fenris’ loyalty he could not bare to speak candidly anymore, he could not take Hawke prying into him again. The memories, the red lyrium tearing open forgotten battles, the gifts, it was too much. It didn’t matter. Not to Fenris. But it needed to stop.

“No.” Fenris turned away, gathered his things and made for the door. He was done talking. 

-

They met the others at Skyhold’s gate. The woman and elf from before were bundled in furs and cloaks, hiding their faces from the whistling wind. The stone arch gave little protection but Fenris didn’t care. He was geared up with his new armor and sword, a pack strapped to him that Hawke assured was now Fenris’ personal belongings (a lie, surely) that now contained his treasured lock and book. 

“Ready?” The woman, ‘Cherrelle’ as Hawke had called her, yelled out against the weather. 

Hawke nodded, pulling his cloak tighter against his body, “Are we waiting for Harding?”

“She should be here in a moment.” Cherrelle responded, but Fenris found himself distracted by the piercing stare of the elf. 

Who was he anyways, some sort of servant for their travel? He had come to accept that these backwards southerners had accepted a wild elf for their Inquisitor, and perhaps had no slaves, but the elf was too short and too silent to be anything else. The sword at his side was short, and even in his bundled up state Fenris could tell he did not have the strength to wield it. So why was he staring at Fenris so fiercely?

Cherrelle elbowed the elf then, gesturing towards Fenris when the short elf turned his stare to her. He paused, before looking back at Fenris with a dark look in his eye, “I’m Elias, by the way, _Warden_ Elias.”

Fenris did not care. He supposed the Wardens took in any criminal or undesirable. 

“Are we walking?” Hawke cut off the elf, who glared at him in response.

“We will ride ‘til the last camp on the Ferelden border.” Cherrelle explained as her eyes caught on something behind them, raising a hand in greeting. Fenris looked over his shoulder to see the familiar squat figure of Varric pushing through the snow. “Ser Tethras!”

Hawke turned quickly as Varric joined them, a grin matching between both of their faces. 

“You didn’t think I wasn’t going to see you off did you Hawke?” Varric said, voice thick with affection as he gave Hawke’s side a soft punch. 

“I almost did actually.” Hawke bent to embrace Varric in a one-armed hug. Fenris looked away, uncomfortable with the easy comfort between them and with how familiar it felt. “You can still change your mind and come with us.”

“Nah.” Varric pulled away, thumping a hand on Hawke’s arm. “Keeper’s got a lot going on, I should stick around for when he needs me. Which will probably be sooner rather than later.”

Varric’s gaze lingered on Fenris, something far-away in his expression before he smiled, “You cleaned up real good Elf, how’s it feel to be out and about like a free man?”

He chose the words carefully, Fenris knew, he had learned to notice the way the dwarf worded things after reading so much of his work. But there was no deception in the words, no trap or illusion in his voice. The normality felt comforting, assuring, but Fenris shrugged it off. Better to not get used to it. 

“It feels uncomfortable.” Fenris responded, it was a true answer although he doubted Varric or Hawke would understand.

“Do you mind if I have a word with Fenris for a second?” Varric turned to the group. No one protested, although Hawke looked anxiously between the two of them before giving a half-hearted shrug.

Fenris followed Varric a few feet away, tucked away from the gate’s arch up against one of the stone walls. Varric rubbed his gloves hands together and breathed hot air against them before looking up at Fenris with a familiar, sad smile.

“Fenris, listen, I’m sorry about how all of this has gone down.” His voice was even, serious. “I know none of this has been easy for you, but, I’m really glad we found you. I can’t imagine what it was like for you to have to… go back. But, uh, I’m not so good with goodbyes, so I wanted to let you know that I see the old you coming back, and if nothing else, I’m glad you’re with us.”

Fenris stood still in the snow, ear twitching under his new cloak’s hood. His chest hurt, feeling as if it was expanding and trying to create an additional layer of armor to protect him from this. _The old you_. It hurt. It hurt in a way Fenris could not articulate. He couldn’t deny the loss and bittersweetness in Varric’s voice, nor the way it resonated inside of him. 

Fenris nodded, “I kept the book. I hope that’s… acceptable?”

Varric grinned, “Yes, of course, it’s _yours_ Fenris. Just, do me a favor and read it until the end, ok? Next time we see each other I want your feedback on the ending, it’s hard to write them when the story isn’t actually done.”

Varric chuckled, Fenris’ ears twitched as he heard a new voice join the others at the gate. Varric turned a bit too and raised his eyebrows, “Time to go.”

Fenris nodded, unsure where his voice went. 

“Hey, I know I just asked for a favor, but, Fenris? Please try and take care of Hawke out there, for me, alright?”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I'm sorry for the extended wait on this chapter all, things have been busier lately and I haven't had as much time to devote to writing. Considering how heavy and important this last arc is I don't want to force it either. Thanks so much to everyone who has supported me and been super patient with me during this time!!
> 
> Lots of mental health and recovery bumps in this chapter, have fun!

Fenris had no memory of ever riding a horse. Slaves were never permitted to ride, but he could not deny the familiar feeling being in the saddle gave him. The tension in his body slowly softened to match the smooth movements of the horse beneath him. The coarse mane brushing the back of his hands was comforting. Masters and free men rode horses, slaves were to try and keep up. No free man wanted a slave on his level. But Hawke had insisted he ride and told him that they had ridden a few times back in the Marches when their work took them far from Kirkwall. 

Hawke had smiled at Fenris’ discomfort and distrust of the shaggy horse. He made a quiet comment about how Fenris had never been comfortable around animals, not at first at least. Fenris remembered a mabari that laid lazily in front of a fire, remembered its teeth lashing out at armed men. He remembered Hawke saying ‘ _he likes you, go on and pat him he won’t bite_ ’.

Fenris had let the memories ebb and flow over him as they rode through the Frostbacks, thankful that the red lyrium was slumbering easily within. They left Skyhold before the sun rose, leaving its large stone walls and seemingly endless tents and encampments while they were lit by only the softest of morning light. The horses knew the path through stone and snow, leaving Fenris to watch the reds and pinks of the sunrise as it rose between snowy peaks and valleys. The others spoke amongst themselves, the dwarf scout cheerily explaining their route to the Orlesian and to Hawke. The elf warden rode with his eyes closed, chin fallen to his chest as he napped.

It had only been a few weeks since Fenris had crossed the Frostbacks with the Venatori. It felt like a lifetime ago, one of the many lifetimes that were clouding and tangling in Fenris’ mind. Fenris was little more than a collection of half-remembered memories and a thousand words impressed upon him by those who held him. Hawke, Varric, the Venatori and his Master, all calling him by the same name but seeing someone else in his place. 

Fenris was a prisoner being lead without a collar to his Master to betray him. He was imprisoned by a man who claimed they were once romantic, a man he could hardly remember. It all coiled inside of Fenris until it knotted and tangled inside of him. He was nothing more than what his Master desired of him. Anything else was fantasy, lies and false promises that would be stolen away from him if he dared to believe them. 

And yet, Fenris recognized hope within himself, hope that Hawke’s version of him was real and somewhere inside of him. He swallowed the thought and let it twist in his stomach and rode on.

Two hours out from Skyhold, the sun had fully risen and the Orlesian woman urged her horse up beside Fenris. She smiled when Fenris turned to her, lines wrinkling around her eyes. She was broad and war-weathered, a large broadsword at her side where she rode astride a horse larger than Fenris’. A proper warrior, but with some sort of softness to her.

“How are you and Fern doing?” Her voice was heavily accented, the last time Fenris had heard someone with that accent was from the human slaves the Venatori had taken at the Orlesian keep. 

“Fern?” Fenris asked.

“Your horse.” She smiled again and Fenris was struck with how effortless it seemed, without contempt or remorse or regret. 

“Ah.” Fenris answered. He looked down at the mane and fuzzy ears in front of him and cautiously placed his hand against the horse’s neck, as he had seen the others pat theirs. He could feel the muscle and soft heat under the brown coat. 

“I am not…” he fixed his posture but kept his eyes down, “Accustomed to riding.”

“I see.” The woman’s smile had not faded and Fenris was beginning to feel wary from her interest in him. “We were not properly introduced, I’m Cherelle, I’ll be guiding us through Orlais. I am the head Orlais scout in the Inquisition.”

Fenris averted his eyes to the path ahead. The Inquisition knew where his Master was, or at least some idea, and this woman would be the one who would lead him. She was most likely telling him her rank to intimidate, so he would know that the Inquisition had eyes on him that were not as compromised as Hawke’s. It was possible there was something else going on that Fenris had not seen yet. Perhaps this mission would be similar to the assassination, perhaps the Inquisition would use him as some sort of bait for his Master and dispose of their promises and him once the mission was over. 

“Are you going to introduce yourself?” Cherrelle asked after a moment.

“You know who I am.” Fenris turned back to her but couldn’t meet her eyes. He knew his notoriety, knew she would have been fully briefed about him.

“I believe everyone should have the chance to introduce themselves.” Cherrelle answered, without even the slightest fictitious tone. 

Fenris shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He did not know what Cherrelle expected from him. To be honest he did not know what to say.

“My name is Fenris.” He said simply.

“Nice to meet you.” Cherelle answered. Fenris felt a barb in his side at how rudely he was conducting himself, a feeling he hadn’t felt clearly since the red lyrium had been forced inside of him. It didn’t matter if he was rude to his captors, did it?

“Where are you from Fenris?”

It was starting to feel patronizing, she _knew_ didn’t she? 

“Minrathous.” He answered. He was supposed to identify his Master’s rank and house, but the words were blocked. He opened his mouth to try and nothing happened. His chest hurt. It didn’t matter. These southerners would not understand or respect it. It didn’t matter out here in the mountains, it _didn’t matter_. Fenris was just a prisoner and it did not matter. 

Cherrelle nodded and ahead Hawke turned back to them and met Fenris’ eyes.

“You’re a long way from home.” Cherrelle said.

-

Fenris had decided to read as Fern carried him along the rocky mountainous paths. He had thought about it for a long time, wondering if it would be allowed. He pulled the book slowly from his pack after an hour of preparing himself to do so, watching as the others continued their talk and ride without so much as a blink in his direction.

The book was awkward to hold in one hand, but he was able to cradle it against the saddle horn. The paper was warped from the water that had spilled across his cell, but the words remained undamaged. Fenris let himself slide into the printed words, ignoring the creeping fear of what his Master would say to see him like this. 

Fenris turned the page to find a simplistic illustration of himself. He closed the book quickly, looking around at his traveling companions to see if any of them had seen. No one had, no one was watching him, and he opened the book again.

The image on the page told its own story, without words. A chill creeped up Fenris’ spine as he understood the image, as if he had seen it before, as if he had lived it. His spitting image stared into the distance, brow furrowed and lyrium markings white upon his neck and arms. A blade was held in one hand, blood dripping in red ink, and his other hand was partially obscured by flowing red fabric fastened at his wrist. Around his feet were bodies twisted in agony, Tevinter crests crudely replicated on their armor, shackles and chains in their hands pooling broken on the ground.

He had seen himself in other illustrations in the book, a simple portrait mixed in with others or his likeness among the other characters the book described. They were simple enough that Fenris had been able to ignore it, to assume it was a hastily drawn trick, or perhaps some other elf. But this image burned deep inside of him, reasonating with whatever was buried so deep and so far that he had only ever heard its whispers. 

He knew the following chapter would be about him. There had been one before that focused on him but it had seemed too outlandish to be true. Fenris fighting and killing slave hunters who had chased him across kingdoms, him fighting demons in his Master’s manor and wishing to face and _defeat_ his Master. It was too convenient, too strange. He tried to ignore the familiar, almost comforting memories of the run-down mansion and found he could not. But it didn’t prove the story was anything more than a handy narrative to try and convince him to renounce his Master. 

Fenris steeled himself and read, ready to analyze and pick apart the lies from what he could remember. The words sung, brought images into his mind of the grey rocky landscapes around Kirkwall. Men ambushed, blocking their path as others peered down from the cliffs. ‘ _You are in possession of stolen property_!’ The voice was clear in Fenris’ mind, each word stinging and sharp from where they emerged from his memory. ‘ _Fenris is not a slave!_ ’

He looked up from the words, eyes darting to the horses, the landscape, the endless snow and rock as a cold sweat prickled along his back. He remembered. The slave hunters had attacked them, demanding Hawke give him up. He remembered the battle that resulted when he, _Fenris_ , had shouted back in anger. He remembered the fear that pumped in his chest as he fought, it had been so long since anyone had tried to take him back, he thought it was all behind him and he was _free_. 

The mountain trail blurred, the soft rock of Fern’s steady gait made the world feel as if it were swaying. Fenris squeezed his eyes shut, willing the red lyrium to stay in its slumber, to not sense and hunt the fear and uncertainty that poured through him. Images formed behind his closed eyes, a mage in Tevinter robes wounded, _begging_ for his life as Fenris hurt him for answers. _’Hadriana’_.

Fenris looked back down at the book, scanning through the words almost too quick to absorb them. He had to know what it said, if it matched the memory that just burst to the surface. The words described the battle, Varric had written it assuming Fenris’ rage but not his fear. And there, in the black and white, was the moment the mage told Fenris that Hadriana had brought them.

Hadriana had been missing from his Master’s estate. He had not seen her after his Master had woken him after ‘rescuing’ him. Fenris had not noticed until now, he had not seen her or heard her name in _years_. And it was because he killed her.

He remembered. 

The mountains around him rocked, spinning as his horse stumbled to a sudden stop. Fenris’ fist was clenched around the reins and shaking, pulling back. The book shook in his hands and the words blurred and _hatred had filled him before he phased his hand into her chest and tore at the hot flesh within._ She had begged and bargained and he toyed with her in exchange for the torments she had subjected him to. A fire spread in his belly and the red lyrium sparked to life, blind within his markings as they lit and seared and recoiled. The stitches were coming apart inside his mind and the lyrium bent _away_ from the source of the memory, guilt and sorrow and grief flooding him. 

“Fenris?”

The lyrium hissed and circled, ready to strike at the weakest points in Fenris’ memory. It reminded Fenris of his Master, the sacrifices and trouble he had gone to to _save_ Fenris from all of this. But the flood continued to fill him. _What about my sacrifice?_ What about his own pain? What about the things they had planted within him, reaping everything good and kind and replacing it with hatred and lyrium.

Hawke appeared, his horse pushing close to Fenris’ as Hawke called his name again. Fenris couldn’t look at him now, he needed to be alone, he couldn’t have Hawke see him like this. The flood had filled him and drowned out the hissing voice of the lyrium, but still it burned hot in his limbs. He was marked and bound and it didn’t matter how far he ran he would _always_ be marked and he would always be his _Master’s_. Hawke believed he could be free and someone worth his love but he was _wrong_.

“Fenris!” Hawke’s voice was louder, but warped, as if through water. As if oceans separated them and Fenris was nothing more than a prisoner trapped in his flesh. The world kept spinning and his horse threw her head as Hawke’s leg brushed Fenris’. This was too much. It was too difficult and painful. This was what his Master had tried to protect him from, wasn’t it? Fenris was fractured down the middle, torn between this past and what he was now.

Hawke’s hand reached out and Fenris dropped the book and the reins. His hands shook as he turned and met Hawke’s eyes. He was paralyzed, unable to return, but unable to look away from the deep hazel of those eyes. Hawke watched him with concern and something else in his gaze as he said Fenris’ name again, softer.

“Fenris.” It was barely a whisper. “You’re ok.”

It was not a question or a demand. But slowly, Fenris felt himself return to his body, the burning of the red lyrium fading as it slipped back into the cold. He kept his eyes locked with Hawke’s, remembering something similar. Remembering having these emotions as Hawke tried to keep eye contact. He remembered the pain deep within, the shame and… something else.

“I killed Hadriana.” Fenris said, the words escaping his chest and becoming real.

Hawke’s face changed. His hand moved to reach for Fenris and remained awkward in the air before he pulled it away. “Yeah.”

“I _remember_.” 

Hawke’s breath held for a moment, his eyes averting down to the book on the ground between their horses hooves. 

Fenris watched him, the small movements and the tense lines around his eyes and on his forehead. The way he opened his mouth, as if to speak, only to think better of it and press his lips together. Fenris was suddenly overwhelmed with a fear he did not recognize. He was frightened that Hawke would find him unfavorable, that he might stop fighting for Fenris. Despite everything, Fenris feared Hawke would send him away. The thought fell heavy inside of him, dragging him down until he felt choked by it.

“I am sorry.” Fenris muttered quickly, pained under the unfamiliar feeling. Unspoken things battered about inside of his chest but he did not know how to voice them. He could barely understand them as they echoed from somewhere far and deep inside. He wanted _something_ and yet he wanted Hawke to be as far away from him as possible.

Hawke met his eyes again, a flicker within before he shook his head, “It’s alright Fenris. You don’t need to talk until you’re ready. Will you be alright to ride?”

His head was pounding and his stomach was in knots, but Fenris nodded.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll grab your book for you and we can just-”

“No,” Fenris interrupted before Hawke could dismount, “I can get it.”

Hawke gazed at Fenris for a second before nodding and turning his horse back around, urging it farther ahead where the rest of their party was waiting.

Fenris slid down the horse’s side, ungracefully, and plucked the book from where it had tumbled in the slate and snow. More pages bent, others damp, Fenris brushed the snow from it and closed it. The world still felt shaky now that he was on his feet. It was heavy on his shoulders and he leaned against Fern’s warm shoulder for a moment before he mounted back up.

-

The rest of the day passed without incident. Hawke remained at the front of the convoy and never looked back. Fenris kept towards the end, followed by Cherrelle from a distance. No one spoke to him since his earlier upset and the Tale of the Champion remained closed in Fenris’ pack. 

Fenris allowed his mind to wander. The memories of the slavers and Hadriana and the dark corridors of a familiar home wove themselves in between the doubts and fears he carried. He knew it wasn’t all lies. But he could not break his loyalty to his Master. His Master represented the only solid ground in the ocean Hawke had introduced him to. 

But still there were questions he knew his Master would never answer. Loss stirred behind Fenris’ ribs and the mystery soured in his mouth. It didn’t matter.

The sky was a pale pink when the dwarf scout led them off the path to a flat hidden by cliffs and boulders for camp. They dismounted and unloaded their packs, leaving the horses to nose about in the snow and rock for grazing as a fire was started and the tents were unpacked. 

Fenris stood by stiffly, unsure of his role as prisoner here. Everyone busied themselves with their tents and their gear while Elias and the dwarf built up the fire in the center of the circle. Any expectation they had of Fenris was unclear.

Hawke wiped his hands as he stepped back from his small tent, all set up with his things casually tossed inside. He turned and spotted him, “You alright Fenris?”

Fenris frowned, unsure of how to answer. “Yes.”

Hawke blinked, eyes darting to Fenris’ pack at his feet and back to him, “You need help with your tent?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Hawke tilted his head slightly as he approached and gestured to the pack, “Your tent. Should get it set up before we lose more light.”

Fenris looked down at the pack, the rolled up canvas and collapsed poles were tied and attached to his bag of his things. He had assumed he was carrying it for someone else. His ears pinned back at the realization. 

“Ah.” Fenris answered, feeling foolish. “I had thought…”

Hawke tried to make eye contact and Fenris avoided it. “Did you need a hand?”

Fenris accepted Hawke’s help. Although he had no recollection of putting up a small one man tent such as this it felt familiar, once again. He wondered when he would stop being surprised by the mundane discoveries that slipped from the void inside of him. The fact he was accepting of the memories without question was troubling, it was against what he had been trained to do. But the damage had been done.

And Fenris liked the idea of having his own tent to sleep in.

Hawke walked Fenris through the steps and once it was up, he nodded to Fenris and left him to go help the others with the food at the fire. The sun was setting and the cold crept up and settled the loose voices in Fenris’ mind. It was quiet save for the quiet chatter at the fire, the voices soft and friendly. 

Fenris took his bag and dragged it into his tent, ducking his head low to fit into the small space. He let the canvas close, shutting him in the dark, only the soft red glow with him as he rummaged in his pack. He pulled his woolen blanket he was given and laid it down against the canvas floor, softening the stone ground under his hands.

Last time he was in a canvas tent he had been curled on the stone ground at the foot of his Master’s cot. He had been so grateful to lie near him after weeks of sleeping chained to the ground under the sky. He remembered the sound of his Master’s breath lulling him to sleep. 

He touched his throat with a single finger and traced the skin that had been bound and hidden for months. He expected the small tent to feel lonely, or inadequate in its size, or too lavish for a slave. But he felt safe, unseen. Peaceful. And now he knew, or remembered, how to take it down and carry it so he might have this dry, warm and private place any where he travelled. 

Fenris froze. A shame crawled down his spine. He was thinking nonsense. These were not thoughts a good loyal slave would have. But… what was the harm in indulging? Just for now. Just until he found his Master. Then he would trade this all for his Master’s approving voice. 

Wouldn’t he?

He shook the doubt from his head and crawled out of the tent. Stars were twinkling in the darkening sky above him, the tents and dozing horses lit by the campfire. His traveling companions were arranged around the fire, faces lit and eyes up to meet his. The dim silhouette of one of them gestured for him to come over to join them. Fenris hesitated, but obeyed.

Cherrelle was beaming at him as he neared, shifting over slightly to make room for him. They were all eating rations of dried meat and bread and sipping cups of a watery soup that had been heated at the fire. The chatter amongst them did not stop as Fenris came to the circle and something about it teased a memory within Fenris. Of similar campfire circles, of friendly people passing him a bottle of spirits to sip from as they talked. Fenris caught Hawke’s eye, saw that he was sat between a pack of supplies and the unfriendly elf, and sat down where Cherrelle had gestured.

It was strange. The act of sitting down with them like this, as an equal, felt equally comfortable and dangerous. He would not be permitted this in the Venatori camps, not without his Master at the very least. 

“Hey, how are you doing?” Cherrelle asked with a smile, as friendly as she had been before. Something about it made Fenris uncomfortable. “Tent all set up?”

Fenris nodded curtly, settling into his spot at the fire, feeling self conscious. He wondered if he could reach out and take a slice of the bread, if they would stop him from pouring some soup into a cup for himself. He wasn’t sure if he could ask.

“Elias was telling us some things that happened with the wardens out in the Approach.” Cherrelle leaned back on her hands.

“Hmm.” Elias, the unfriendly elf, eyed Fenris. “Fenris obviously knows much more about what the Venatori get up to than I do. He doesn’t want to hear about it.”

“We should change the subject.” Hawke nodded, blinking quickly and straightening his posture. 

“What are you saying about the Venatori?”

Hawke’s face fell at Fenris’ question. Elias squared his jaw as he sat up, chin up and proud, completely unsightly on an elf.

“Only the truth.” Elias started, eyes boring into Fenris’. Even with his disrespectful stare, Fenris did not miss how Hawke squeezed the elf’s arm. “They are evil, vile people. They forced us to use blood magic and summon demons, they made me kill my fellow wardens-”

“You speak out of turn.” The red within opened a single eye as it thrashed in its slumber. Anger filled Fenris’ markings. 

“Oh, _I see_ , is that how it is? Is it?” The elf was clamoring to his feet, impeded by his warden armor and his face burning red.

Fenris was on his feet before he even realized, Hawke standing at Elias’ side with a grip around his arm as if to stop the small elf from charging through the fire at Fenris. _Let him_ , Fenris wanted to say, the red inside of him waking, thick in his limbs and dark. Heavier than before as Fenris’ chest ached. 

“Elias don’t-” Hawke warned as Cherrelle and Scout Harding rose to their feet, hands up and eyes nervous. 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Elias shouted, thrashing his arm in Hawke’s grip before turning back to Fenris. “You of all people _should_ understand! I looked up to you, you prick! Back in Kirkwall! I always thought if you could overcome everything you did, I could too and now look at you! You bought into all their bullshit, after everything they did to you!”

“ELIAS!” Hawke shouted, Fenris would have jumped if he wasn’t already ready for a fight.

“You got _rescued_ and you have someone who loves you enough to have done that for you!” Elias was yelling louder, drowning out the warnings from around the fire. “They _ruined_ you and you won’t even admit it, or question it! We _aren’t_ your enemies and the Venatori were never your goddamn friends! You can buy into that delusion if you want but do NOT try to drag me under it!”

Fenris wanted to shout back. He wanted the go ahead to put down the unruly elf. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip Hawke’s arm away from Elias. He did not know what to do. The red thickened and darkened until he wasn’t sure it was even the lyrium anymore.

Fenris turned and left the fire, retreating into the dark. Listening for charging footsteps behind but none came. Instead he heard exasperation, warning tones as he went to his tent and crawled inside. He wanted his things and he wanted to get away. He _wanted_ and he burned up inside at the fact. He should want for nothing but his Master, he should have stayed and defended his Master and his associates. But this, the dark solitude of the tent and his familiar feeling of page edges in his hand is what he wanted.

Outside he could hear the conversation continue at the fire as the red inside of him lulled back to sleep. 

“What is the matter with you! You have no idea what he has been through Elias, he needs to figure this out on his own! You’ve just ruined weeks of work!”

“You let him _ruin_ your _life_ Hawke! Don’t pretend I wasn’t there with you while you were nearly killing yourself trying to find him!”

“Hey, we… we should probably make sure he doesn’t take off. The mountains are not a good place for someone to run off alone.”

“You’re right. Harding, come with me, we can keep an eye out and let these two work it out.”

The thickness inside of Fenris was growing heavier, jealousy and guilt curdling up where he was not used to carrying it. He wanted Elias to stop and leave Hawke alone, or at least to stop yelling about this where Fenris could hear them. The idea of running off into the icy mountains sounded perfect. Running away felt like the right thing to do, as if some echo from his forgotten life returned to him. He knew he could take his things and run through the night if he needed to. 

It didn’t matter where anymore.

Fenris’ ears pinned at the crunch of footsteps past his tent and he froze. The fear was familiar and yet unlike any he remembered having, he did not want them to keep him here any longer. He couldn’t go along with this mission, could not be a prisoner to them for a moment longer. He shoved his book back into his pack and pulled the blanket up from the ground and pushed it in after. He wouldn’t be able to take the tent with him. He did not have time.

“Elias, listen, I’m sorry I dragged you out here. I’m sorry I wasn’t there and these things happened to you-”

“Hawke you did NOT drag me out here! Why are you so convinced that you are on your own? I have only ever wanted to help you and you keep acting like you don’t have anyone that cares about you! Just because Fenris forgot about you and doesn’t care doesn’t mean that no one does!”

Fenris gritted his teeth. His bag was packed, nothing was stopping him from bolting and escaping into the mountains. But he could not move. He could barely take a breath. He was heavy, weighed, he might as well be chained to the ground again.

“Maker…. Would you stop? What’s going on with me and Fenris has nothing to do with you. You wouldn’t understand anyways, nothing else matters to me more than Fenris being safe and happy again. I don’t care.”

There was silence. Fenris’ ears were ringing from the echoes of Hawke’s words.

“We… We never had a chance, did we?”

“What?”

Elias laughed outside. Fenris’ throat burned as he slowly shifted out of the tent.

“Hawke you’re… You’re the worst sometimes.”

The cold mountain wind met Fenris’ face as he emerged from the tent. Scout Harding was standing at the other end of the camp near the horses with eyes on him. Cherrelle was sitting near the path they rode in on, also watching. They were trying to corner him, to keep him from running. No one could kept him from running. The desire had sparked into a fire inside of him, a light that urged him on.

Against better judgment, Fenris turned to the campfire. Hawke was watching him. Elias was wiping at his face and turning away. Hawke’s face was lit by the fire, his eyes reflecting the crackling embers that snapped from the flames. Fenris ached. 

He couldn’t do this. 

Fenris ran, spooking one of the horses as he sprinted past them and the dwarf scout. The commotion would give him a moment longer to make space between him and his captors. The rocks were cold and sharp under his feet, tumbling down as the narrow path led Fenris into the dark. The wind was loud and freezing in his ears. He blinked hard as his eyes adjusted to the night, he expected to hear shouts and the beat of horse’s hooves behind him in pursuit but the mountains were silent. He could only hear his heavy breath in the dark.

He ran until his feet and lungs ached. He collapsed in snow, gasping for breath and sweating as he peered back behind him. The campfire was among the stars on the horizon. No one had followed him. He was alone. 

Fenris covered his face with his hands. His chest felt as if it would burst. His head was pounding and his stomach twisted and all he wanted to do was laid down and let the misery and pain wrack his body. He deserved it. He needed to feel it. Everything away from his Master was confusion and pain and loss. But even now, in the dark all alone, Fenris found little desire inside of him to return to his Master at all.

He sunk down into the snow, rolling himself into a smaller and smaller shape until something inside of him finally cracked. Fenris wept quietly until sleep took him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm not dead!
> 
> Sorry for the long wait on this everyone, I had a 2.5 week vacation in Europe and came back home to a very bad situation and it took a long time to feel the inspiration and motivation to write again. Thank you all so much for being so patient with me, I'm really excited to get into this phase of the fic and I hope it was worth the wait! 
> 
> Also you can follow my tumblr linked to my author info for status updates on fics as well as drabbles and prompts... Im more active there than here lol

“Let him go.” Hawke called out to Cherrelle and Harding as they readied to chase after Fenris. “Just let him go.”

“What?” Harding had a tight grip on one of the horses' halters, steadying them from bolting. “He's a prisoner!”

“He doesn't know where to go.” Hawke looked out across the dark mountains, the Frostbacks stretched as far as the eye could see. “It's fine.”

“He has no tent, no rations.” Cherrelle was shaking her head, squinting at Hawke through the dark. “Are you sure about this, Hawke?”

Hawke stared at the dark path Fenris had fled down and took a long, measured breath. “He has his sword. The red lyrium keeps his temperature up, he won't freeze.”

The two scouts exchanged looks, unsure but unwilling to voice their opinions. Hawke didn't care, he was the leader of this party and they would follow his decision. In all honesty, Hawke didn't know why he hadn't expected this to happen.

He turned and walked back to the fire. Elias was standing half in darkness, arms wrapped around his chest, eyes red. He watched as Hawke came back and sat back down at the fire. The tension thick in the air, the silence weighted as everyone watched Hawke for a reaction they could understand.

“I'm...” Elias' voice was small, he looked out in the direction Fenris had run. “I'm sorry I... What are we going to do?”

Hawke tore off a piece of bread and helped himself to more soup. He pressed his lips together as he settled down with the food and stared deep into the fire. He was calmer and more at peace with the situation than he would have expected of himself. Was it denial or relief? It didn't feel that way, he was not gutted or hurt by Fenris fleeing. It seemed right. It seemed normal and like a final piece falling into place.

Perhaps Fenris _needed_ to run. He thought of Fenris' time with the fog warriors, his time on the run from slavers, the times in Kirkwall he had become overwhelmed or frightened and had left. Hawke had understood then that Fenris needed space, needed time and silence to be within alone.

The Iron Bull had mentioned something about this, hadn't he? About how Fenris would need to take the journey himself, how no one would be able to convince him he was free. he had made his decision to run, to be alone. It seemed right.

“I can find him.” Hawke said after a few bites of his meal. “I can track him in the snow. I'll leave in the morning, let him have a head start, we can all meet at the Inquisition camp later.”

The scouts returned, nervously standing near the fire watching Hawke. No one had sat down but Hawke found he didn't care. They didn’t understand that this was fine. That it was a good thing to have happen.

“Are you sure?” Cherrelle asked again.

Hawke nodded, “It will be fine. He'll be fine. Trust me.”

“Hawke...” Elias' voice was still small. The scouts stepped away at the sound of it, feeling the weight and clearly sensing the intimacy of his tone. “I'm sorry.”

Hawke shrugged a shoulder, knowing he should look Elias in the eye and give him a reassuring smile but unable to do so.

“It would have happened sooner or later. Sooner is probably better.”

Elias stepped from the darkness and slowly sat on the opposite side of the fire. The scouts had made themselves scarce. Elias brought a weight with him, one that Hawke could feel pulling at him as soon as the young elf was close. He felt foolish. Ashamed that he had not noticed the young man's interest in him _at all_ , even though it was painfully clear from the years they had sporadically travelled together. If he had known, he would have rebuffed him early, kept his distance, and certainly would not have joked drunkenly about his own inappropriate thoughts of him.

Hawke almost snorted, he was such a mess of a person.

“I'm sorry Elias.” Hawke said, flat and unfeeling. He wished he could put more into it.

“Oh.” Elias nodded at the fire, as if it had made an interesting point. Neither could look the other in the eye.

“Don't feel bad about Fenris though.” Hawke added quickly, not wanting to sit in silence. “He spent years on the run, and even when things were good he would need to be alone like this sometimes. He spent the last couple weeks locked up, and before that... well, it's probably exactly what he needs.”

Elias' eyes were less red now, the shadows under them their typical dark tone. He twisted the end of his long braid nervously, “You think it's _safe_ to go after him?”

A pained smile crossed Hawke's face, remembering Elias threatening Fenris' life only a day ago. He wondered if that was simple infatuation or some sort of jealousy at work. “I'm not sure but I'm not too worried. Don't worry, I'll be careful.”

Elias nodded, dropping his braid and shoving his hands together instead. Uneasy. “You think he hates me now?”

“What?” Hawke looked up from the fire.

“Fenris.” Elias swayed awkwardly.

“Oh, well, I wouldn't say he _hates_ you.” Hawke answered. “He's always had trouble with elves, I wouldn't take it personally. Especially now, he's pretty confused right now.”

Elias' face screwed up, “The Venatori said some... really terrible things. Worse than what I've gotten from others. I just... I shouldn't have yelled at him. I can't imagine, I mean, I was _so close _/ to being in a similar position to Fenris _twice_ now and...”__

__He trailed off, shaking his head and looking up at the stars above them. Hawke's chest ached. Hearing what Elias had dealt with in the Approach hurt, he wished that Elias had just stayed with him when they landed in Ferelden. He wished he could have protected at least one person he cared about from the Venatori._ _

__“Don't worry about it.” Hawke broke the silence. “I had worse with him when we first got him back. He'll be alright. Maybe he'll think it over out there in the mountains on his own.”_ _

__“You know...” Elias said. “When I was coming to Skyhold and I learned you were there, I had thought that maybe... I don't know. From seeing the Venatori and how they work I just expected you wouldn't be somewhere safe unless Fenris had died. I thought that he was gone.”_ _

__“Oh.” Hawke's heart grew heavy. Elias had expected to find a grieving Hawke at Skyhold. Hawke barely had time for Elias because of Fenris. “Oh, Maker, Elias... I'm so sorry for everything.”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“I put Fenris before everyone.” Hawke's voice wavered. “ _Everyone_. Even myself. I didn't mean to hurt you, in any way. I'm so sorry I wasn't able to protect you. Ugh, if I had known, I would have done something. I'm a mess.”_ _

__Elias nodded, “You are.”_ _

__“I'm sorry.”_ _

__“Thank you.” Elias' voice was small, a whisper over the crackling fire. “To be fair... I don't think anyone is okay these days.”_ _

__

__Hawke woke before the sun rose. The night was fading from the sky, the soft glow of the distant sunrise absorbed by the snow. The air was cold against his face as he stood from his tent. One of the horses perked its ears in his direction from where they were tethered on the other side of the camp before looking away to nose at the ground. Fenris' tent stood vacant nearby, canvas flap swaying gently in the mountain breeze._ _

__Hawke broke down his own tent and packed it away with his things before he moved onto Fenris'. His mind sleepily wandered to the previous day, to the way Fenris was quietly making an effort to join the group. How he had awkwardly adjusted to riding, the way he touched his breastplate and sheathed sword seemingly without thought. The spark that lit in his eyes as he suddenly remembered the next step for setting up the small tent._ _

__Fenris was different than how Hawke had found him all those weeks ago. The growth Fenris had fought for and struggled with evident in every action and word he spoke. Hawke refused to see his flight as anything but progress. When was the last time Fenris had been alone, without bars or chains to imprison him? When had Fenris run free of his own accord, thrown caution to the wind and staked his own course?_ _

__Hawke didn't want to think about it. He only wanted to imagine that Fenris might be content with his decision._ _

__Once the tent was packed up tightly next to his own, Hawke hefted his pack and his bow and left the camp. The rest of the group would travel slow, as he had instructed, along the road to the camp. There they would wait at least a week before looking for Hawke and Fenris in the mountains. It gave Hawke plenty of time. He only hoped it was enough time for Fenris._ _

__He stomped down along the mountain trail alone, nothing but the crunch of snow under his feet and the lonely call of a bird floating on the winter wind. The Frostbacks yawned out before him, deep valleys and rocky peaks for as far as the eye could see. Hawke knew the path to the Inquisition camp on the border of Orlais from the maps he had been shown, knew which direction to follow from the rising sun. Fenris did not know the way. The Inquisition agents had wanted him to be ignorant to their path so he had seen no maps or compasses in the previous day and a half. Fenris did not even know where Skyhold was situated in the expansive mountain range. He had run blind._ _

__Hawke wondered how far Fenris had gone, how far he would have run until he felt safe. Back in Kirkwall, Fenris had told him how he had run through Tevinter and the Marches from the slavers. He had run through the winter, hiding in barns and forests and towns, but had nights where he could not afford to stop. Slavers on horseback had been on his heels as he swam through icy rivers, his feet nearly freezing as he climbed rocky foothills and ran until the sun rose._ _

__But with no one pursuing Fenris, he might not have run all night. Hawke could only hope._ _

__Hawke found tracks in the snow within the hour. The crunched tumbles of snow were too clumsy to be any native creature. They followed the road down from the camp for some time before veering off into the deeper snow towards a deep valley. Hawke took his time, not wanting to pursue Fenris too closely, he was well aware that Fenris might attack if he felt threatened._ _

__The morning stretched out around Hawke, sunlight reflecting from the white peaks around him as he stepped gently through the snow. It crunched underfoot, combined with Fenris' tracks. In the distance Hawke could see white rams skipping up the cliff faces as he neared, small fennecs scampering so quick they were little more than a blur in the corner of his eye._ _

__He did not see Fenris until twilight._ _

__The snow of the peaks was a warm orange from the sunset. Fenris was huddled against a slate cliff across the valley from Hawke. Small in the distance and curled against himself. Hawke stopped and lowered himself into the wet snow under him, hoping Fenris had not spotted him yet. Hawke was unsure of his next move, despite having spent the entire day trying to make a plan. He had intended to keep an eye on Fenris, wait till he needed help or, hopefully, until Fenris noticed him and came to him. Seeing him now, from this distance, Hawke knew he had to stay hidden. At least for a while._ _

__Hawke peeked up over the bank to see Fenris was fumbling with flint and tinder, trying to make a fire with a bundle of dead bush branches. He was frowning as he struggled, but Hawke was relieved that he did not seem cold or injured. Fenris had his pack with him, a couple of essteinals would be inside, so he was not without supplies. But no rations, as the others had pointed out. Fenris must be hungry._ _

__Fenris worked the flint and tinderwith a frustration and determination Hawke recognized from years past. His intense focus and annoyance when tasks did not fall easily before him. He had always been so hard on himself, so ready to count out ‘mistakes’ he had made in battle or otherwise. He always wanted to be better, to catch up and to hide the things he did not know. Hawke remembered the surprised twitch of his ear, his eyes flicking up and a reluctant shy smile that would spread across his face when complimented. Hopefully that Fenris was not far away. Hawke could see the ghosts of him in all of Fenris’ actions._ _

__After some time Fenris managed to light the collection of brush, jumping and quickly pulling branches and sticks over to the small flame. He protected the small lick of fire with his hand, gently blowing into it until the wood caught. Hawke smiled from behind the snowbank, thankful the light was fading and helping him keep hidden from Fenris._ _

__Hawke hoped Fenris would surprise him and pull out a rabbit or fennec to cook over the fire. He didn’t know how long he would be comfortable watching Fenris go without food. But instead Fenris rummaged in his bag, laid out a blanket for him to stretch his legs out on, and opened the Tale of the Champion flat in his lap and started reading. The fire was light for him to read by. Hawke turned away, slid himself down the hill quietly and found his own place to make camp out of Fenris’ sight._ _

__Fenris had left by the time Hawke awoke the next morning. Nothing but a small pile of black ash left behind. Hawke followed his trail slowly throughout the day, wondering what memories Fenris uncovered in the book last night. What dreams haunted him, if Fenris had slept at all. He wondered what Fenris would eat, if he had even considered hunting the game that roamed the peaks._ _

__Hawke wondered if he could hunt _for_ Fenris somehow. But how would he without alerting Fenris of his presence too early? How could he leave a rabbit or quail somewhere Fenris would come across it? _ _

__Fenris was spotted by mid-afternoon, marching through shin-deep snow on a long plateau. He was too far to reach from where Hawke stood on a crag, higher but far away. It would be too obvious for Hawke to follow him, and he wondered why Fenris had chosen to walk through a vast empty plain instead of the twisting peaks and stones that would offer better cover._ _

__Perhaps it was to draw Hawke out?_ _

__It was likely, Fenris was anything but stupid. He _always_ knew when he was being followed, when the wilderness held danger to him. Hawke had always thought it was some uncanny paranoia, but clearly there was more to it than that. This was how Fenris had stayed alive all these years, wasn’t it? He was hoping to lure Hawke out, challenging him to be seen._ _

__A flock of birds broke into flight from a nearby peak, the beating of their wings the only noise above the whistling winds. Fenris looked up to them as Hawke did the same, and Hawke took the opportunity. He took an arrow and pulled back on his bowstring, aiming and let the red-tailed arrow soar through the air. It caught one of the mountain birds in its plump chest, a clean kill. The bird fell and Hawke watched as Fenris’ eyes followed it as it landed in the snow._ _

__Fenris stared at the bird for a second before shooting a look in Hawke’s direction. Hawke did not hide. He lowered his bow, relaxed his posture, and looked back. Fenris tilted his head, his hand was ready to pull his sword but slowly fell. Instead he turned to the bird, ungracefully plowed through the snow to retrieve it. He looked back at Hawke again, chin up in an expression Hawke could not describe but somehow understood before Fenris vanished into a nearby twist of stone._ _

__Fenris would eat tonight. Hawke felt satisfied. He felt relieved as well, a held breath escaping him after Fenris vanished from sight. Fenris knew he was following, and while he still ran, he intended no harm to him. It was part of the journey. It was as Hawke thought. He could relax, he could take his time following Fenris without fear._ _

__Hawke decided not to pursue Fenris until daybreak, setting up his camp on the crag Fenris had seen him stand upon. He burned a fire when the sun fell, let it burn bright and large. A while into the night, Hawke spotted a fire a distance away, flickering in and out like a star. It was like they were living on different stars themselves, in the same night sky but far apart, and Hawke was just happy that Fenris was allowing him to see his own light._ _

__For days Hawke followed Fenris. Nothing much changed, every day at one point or another they would spot each other in the snow and stone. They never advanced on the other, never showed aggression or fear, simply met eyes across peaks and cliffs and expanses, then went on their way. Hawke stopped feeling like he was traveling alone. He hunted when he could, hunted for Fenris when he could, and every night he lit his fire and waited for Fenris’ to show up in the dark mountains._ _

__Fenris would come to him in time, Hawke was sure. Fenris had been leading them in oblong circles and twisting paths in the peaks, moving wherever he felt safe, never seeming to find his bearings. It was fine, Hawke did not mind. He still had a week and a half before the Inquisition scouts would come looking for them. They were safe in these isolated mountains. And it was just them._ _

__At night Hawke would remember the crowded halls of Skyhold, the too-full dining hall and the constant eyes and brushed shoulders. It felt good to be out here, isolated and at peace. Far from the rest of the world. Nothing but the wind at his back as it whispered in his ear. Nothing but him and Fenris’ distant shining light. Hawke had seen the Venatori camps and seen the treatment Fenris had endured while he was in their charge. He tried to imagine what freedom, after all of this time, would feel like out here in the lonely peaks. Hawke could only imagine._ _

__At times, Hawke considered leaving Fenris in the mountains. Turning a blind eye, knowing his once lover could survive in the snow and the peaks’ hardships. He could lie to the Inquisition and tell them that Fenris had eluded him. Lost in the snow, the wilds._ _

__Would it be better? Better than forcing him to follow Hawke on the suicide mission to imprison his former master?_ _

__Hawke did not like to entertain such thoughts, but found himself savoring these long days. The silence, the anticipation of spotting Fenris in the distance. Part of him wished this pocket of time could last forever, simple and uncomplicated. It was enough. It might be enough._ _

__The following day Hawke did not see Fenris. He followed his trail, the clumsy footfalls, the crumble of snow between the cliffs. But he did not see Fenris. He was too far ahead, perhaps he had gone faster today, or maybe he had found a way to elude Hawke properly. Fear caught in Hawke’s chest, what if Fenris was not comforted by his presence as Hawke had been? What if Fenris had been trying to find how to elude the rogue? What if he had succeeded, and Hawke had been fool all along?_ _

__The night came and Hawke felt panic simmer inside of him. He lit his campfire, watched for a matching glow in every direction. He forwent food, let himself stay hungry as he scanned the horizon for hours. No light came. No fire lit in any direction. A proper silence fell over the mountains, no more ghosts at Hawke’s campfire._ _

__Hawke fell asleep next to the fire, his dreams plagued with a comfortable, safe and smiling Fenris from the past. All his hopes, lost in the snow._ _

__The sun rose and Hawke blinked his eyes against its light. He blinked at the figure shadowed by it. Was he delirious? Dreaming? Or had the scouts come looking for him?_ _

__"Hawke." Fenris' voice broke the silence like a spring birds call after a long winter. Hawke could barely bring himself to look up at Fenris as the sun rose behind him, silhouetted like a paper cut out against the sky._ _

__He tried to ignored the familiarity, the imagined warmth within Fenris' voice. Hope lodged in his throat as he answered "Fenris."_ _

__"You followed me." His tone was soft. Fragile. Hawke could not see his expression in the shadow of his face._ _

__"I had to." Hawke winced at his wording, "not because of the Inquisition, not like that. I -"_ _

__"You had to." Fenris' voice was quiet, sweet, Hawke thought of the whispers Fenris would breathe across the pillows all those years ago._ _

__"I had to." Hawke nodded_ _


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer and a bit more.... trying, so make sure you note new tags on this chapter. Specifically there is a scene with some consent issues so be mindful of that. This one was difficult to write so it took some time but I appreciate everyone being so patient with me lately ♥ don't forget you can follow my DA tumblr for more regular updates and ficlets. Thanks as always for your support!

Fenris knelt at the campfire next to Hawke and worked to relight it. The still-warm embers from the night before glowed red at his efforts, and within a moment Fenris had a small fire flickering to life between him and Hawke.

 

Hawke pulled his cloak closer, blinking hard at the rising sun and the flames. Was this a dream? Fenris sat on a stone across the fire, his cloak fanning out into the snow behind him as the dim red lines glowed in his skin. Hawke had spent a week following Fenris from a distance, to have him so close felt delicate, like a deer extending its head to an outstretched hand. Any sudden movement and Fenris could vanish again.

 

“I owe you an apology.” Fenris said.

 

“What?” Hawke’s voice felt worn, unused. 

 

Fenris’ red eyes met Hawke’s over the fire. A familiar, vulnerable warmth lit inside them. A look that Hawke had slowly seen come to the surface over the past few weeks. Since Hawke had removed Fenris’ collar.

 

“I am your prisoner.” Fenris said simply. “I should not have left.”

 

“Oh, oh no.” Hawke shook his head. “Fenris, please do not apologize for this. I don’t think of you like that, regardless of what the Inquisition decided.”

 

“And yet you followed.” It was not an accusation, but an observation. Fenris wasn’t even looking at Hawke, instead gazing out across the peaks and beyond them. There was something serene in his expression.

 

Hawke took a slow breath. There was a tension present in Fenris’ body, how he held himself despite the peaceful look on his face. His shoulders were stiff, hands laid at his sides as he sat forward, as if he might leap from where he sat and bolt into the mountains again. It was not unlike the Fenris Hawke remembered from their early years, the vigilance, the fingers poised for his sword. 

 

Something important was happening here between them. They were alone, no chains or walls or strangers. Fenris was, essentially, free here in the lonely peaks. 

 

“Would you have prefered I left you alone?” Hawke’s voice was small. He was acutely aware of the wind at their backs, the crackling fire, the gentle shifts within Fenris’ eyes as he scanned the horizon.

 

“I am not sure.” Fenris said after a small breath. “Perhaps? I do not quite understand what it is that I… want.”

 

The last word was quiet, weighted and Hawke blinked hard. Fenris had not allowed Hawke to use that word for him, always avoiding and correcting its use. Fenris the slave was not permitted to ‘want’. Which Fenris was sitting across the fire from him now?

 

“I should not have left.” Fenris said again. He frowned into the distance, his words were slow and deliberate. “You have followed me for a long time, for so far. It was cruel of me. I was a coward.”

 

Hawke’s heart thudded in his chest as he stared dumbly at Fenris. This felt familiar, so familiar, as if they had this conversation before. Or some distant version of it that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Fenris…”

 

Fenris met his eyes, “I have read the book Hawke. I know I left you before. I remember you waited, you showed me patience, and I…”

 

Hawke covered his face with his hands. The book. The damned book. Of course, Fenris had read about Hadriana, which meant that he… Hawke had given him warning that they had been romantically involved but, Varric had not been coy about it in the book. Varric’s retellings were not especially detailed or specific but embarrassing at best… At worst...

 

“Fenris…” Hawke breathed, his head spinning. 

 

Fenris was still watching him when Hawke lowered his hands.

 

“I remember, Hawke.” The words were flat in Fenris’ mouth. No emotion. Nothing to give away. “I remember  _ so many things _ . I do not know what it means for me now. But I know that you have given me too much. More than I deserve, more than you should have given.”

 

Hawke’s heart rose to his throat, tight and choking. 

 

“I would…” His voice was little more than a whisper. “I would give you more if I knew how.”

 

Fenris watched him. The cold winter wind ran through his hair as snow began to fall. Fenris did not look away and Hawke wished he could swallow his words back from where they hung in the air. Fenris deserved everything. He deserved  _ everything _ .

 

Fenris looked away and Hawke swore he saw the smallest smile on his lips before he stood.

 

“We should move on.”

 

-

 

Fenris heaped snow onto the campfire as Hawke took down his unused tent and packed his bag. His hands were shaking as he tightened the draw on his bag, his arms and legs quivering as he threaded his bow and shouldered the load. They didn’t speak and Hawke was unsure of where they stood.

 

Fenris admitted he remembered, but didn’t know what he wanted. Fenris had smiled when Hawke all but declared his devotion to him. Hawke didn’t know where they were going. 

 

“Where to?” Hawke asked.

 

Fenris looked at him blankly. “Lead, and I will follow.”

 

Hawke’s heart thudded against his chest, “The Inquisition camp is a three day hike from here. The others are waiting for us there.”

 

Fenris said nothing, only watched Hawke expectantly.

 

“Uh,” Hawke scratched at his beard. “Unless you would rather go… somewhere else.”

 

Fenris’ ear twitched, the snow was settling against them. “Where else would we go?”

 

“I don’t know.” Hawke shrugged slightly, a small disappointment unfurling in his chest. Where else was there to go? He couldn’t disappear into the mountains with an imprisoned agent of the Inquisition. They had a mission, and although Hawke would rather go  _ anywhere _ than face Danarius again, they did not have a choice.

 

It was their only chance to save Fenris from the red lyrium.

 

They walked in near silence for most of the morning. Fenris took up the rear, following Hawke as he followed his compass and the distinct mountain peaks to the correct path. The snow continued to fall and Hawke thought of how fortunate they had been for the weather they had. It looked as if it might turn for the worse now.

 

But they were together. Hawke accepted the trade off.

 

It took some time to find a path that was not blocked by snow drifts or impassible peaks. This region of the Frostbacks rarely saw travelers, and now Hawke could see why. The security of the isolation was only somewhat worth the trouble they found. At least now they were on track, instead of wandering aimlessly.

 

Hawke almost wanted to ask Fenris where he had intended on going when he ran. What horizon Fenris was seeking in the cold and the isolation. But it was probably better left unsaid.

 

“Hawke?” 

 

Hawke looked over his shoulder at Fenris, suddenly lulled by how normal this felt. It had been years but Fenris following two steps behind him was something Hawke doubted he would ever have again.

 

“What is it?” Hawke answered, looking back to the path.

 

“You have been very quiet.” Fenris observed. “I expected you to have questions.”

 

Hawke blinked against a gust of cold wind, “I have been. It’s been awhile since I traveled with company, I’m used to the silence.”

 

There was a pause, “You were quiet when I was in the cell. You waited for me to speak first.”

 

“Yeah.” Hawke’s voice felt too loud out here.

 

“And yet you had questions.” Fenris pointed out. His voice felt light, unburdened, Hawke wondered what exactly it was Fenris found out in the peaks, or in the book, that brought this peace to him.

 

“I did.” Hawke admitted, pausing to shake snow from his cloak. Fenris was watching him, seemingly unbothered by the snow that was collecting on his own hood. “You’re not cold at all?”

 

“I am… comfortable.” Fenris looked away, eyes scanning the peaks. “The cold settles the lyrium, it is much easier to think out here.”

 

“Right.” Hawke pulled his cloak close, the cold creeping against him as he resumed their pace. A thought caught him. “I’ve heard that. When I was at Skyhold I heard about red templars, they ingest red lyrium and become… something else.”

 

“I have heard of them.” Fenris said flatly from behind. 

 

“I saw what red lyrium did to Bartrand…”

 

“Yes.” Fenris said stiffly. Hawke turned to look, but his expression gave nothing away. “And the Knight-Commander was also affected.”

 

Right, he finished the book. Hawke swallowed hard, he had only pictured Fenris having read to where they had briefly come together. He hadn’t expected Fenris to have gone further than that, to know that they reunited and became lovers only two years later. He would have read about the uprising, the final confrontation as the sky burned and the mages retreated and-

 

Fenris knew what happened in The Hanged Man.

 

Hawke turned, “So, you  _ finished _ the book?”

 

Fenris blinked, “I have.”

 

Hawke tried to form words and found none met his lips. His mind scrambled, grasping at loose threads and lost thoughts. He stared dumbly at Fenris who did nothing but hold his gaze. How could he reveal  _ nothing _ in his red eyes? What thoughts and memories were held behind them? What decisions had Fenris made with what he had learned?

 

Was Fenris planning to follow Hawke without comment, without question? Was he still mulling over the book’s contents or had he decided to play along until he could betray Hawke?

 

Would Fenris kill him here in the mountains where they were alone? Or was he waiting to be delivered to Danarius?

 

“Ah.” Hawke answered. One of Fenris’ ears twitched, almost inquiringly, before Hawke turned away and marched down the path.

 

There was a pause before Fenris’ footsteps caught up to him, crunching softly through the snow behind him. Fenris would not talk about it, would he? Not without Hawke to incite a conversation, or ask a question. Fenris had been this way years ago, when they first met, speaking little, waiting for conversation to present itself while he learned how to converse like a free man. He had never been  _ this _ quiet,  _ this _ tight-lipped. But perhaps he had been before he first met Hawke.

 

“Did…” Hawke shook his head at his false start, tried again, “You said before that you remembered things from the book.”

 

“Yes.” Fenris said, Hawke did not turn around, felt safer to not look. “Are you wondering what I remembered?”

 

Fenris wasn’t going to make this easy for him was he?

 

“I am.”

 

“Hmm.” Fenris hummed thoughtfully. “I am not sure you would be pleased with my answer. Memories rise then fade. As I said, I do not know what it is I want, but I cannot help but feel…”

 

Hawke turned, Fenris’ eyes were at his feet, lost. His hands fidgeted at his sides under his cloak, his expression continued to trail and turn into something forlorn as Hawke watched. Fenris did not seem to notice him.

 

“That I…” Fenris looked up and started at Hawke’s attention, his shoulders falling slowly as his face became blank and unreadable once more. “Owe you some debt.”

 

Hawke nearly huffed a laugh, twisted out from the clutch his heart was trapped in, “A debt?”

 

It had been years.  _ Years _ , but Fenris has once felt this hadn’t he? He had once said words like this. “That’s how you feel?”

 

Fenris’ ears drooped slightly, his eyebrows knitted and something changed in his face. A pained expression stared at Hawke from under the snow-covered hood. 

 

“We should continue, you don’t want to keep the Inquisition waiting do you?” Fenris moved past Hawke, taking up a brisk pace down the path they were following. Hawke felt his heart move with him.

 

-

 

More hours passed and Hawke’s mind spun, tangling every thread until he could think no longer. He had spent weeks waiting for this moment, when Fenris would finish the book and begin piecing their forgotten history back together. He had expected it to be explosive, dramatic in some way. He had expected at worst that Fenris would refuse to believe and would try to kill him again. At his most hopeful Hawke had imagined Fenris’ heart mending, returning to himself, slipping into Hawke’s arms like some damsel in one of Varric’s books.

 

This silence, the waiting, was not what he had expected. 

 

Fenris revealed nothing. And what he had revealed only presented his own confusion, and further things left unsaid. Hawke could not help but still worry it was an elaborate ruse.He trusted Fenris, didn’t he? He had to have faith in him, let him have the space and the time to find his truth on his own. 

 

He just needed time. They both did. But Hawke knew that the time was running out, the rest of the world would come for them and tear their attentions away. The snow would melt and the red lyrium would glow fierce again. Would Fenris have time to remember, to figure out what it was he wanted and needed? When would Fenris come back to himself?

 

Hawke found himself wishing for eternal solitude in the peaks again. A break from the war, the demons and the lyrium. A breach from reality where they could just find  _ peace _ .

 

“Can I ask you a question?” Fenris looked back to Hawke from where he led. 

 

Hawke shrugged the heavy thoughts from his shoulders, “Sure.”

 

“Where are they now?”

 

Hawke frowned down the path, “They went to the Inquisition camp, I told you.”

 

Fenris’ eyes flicked back up to Hawke’s, no expression to match them, “I meant our friends from Kirkwall.”

 

Hawke stumbled on a loose stone under fresh snow.  _ Our friends _ . He felt dizzy. Where to start? How to start? They had not discussed anyone from Kirkwall, besides Varric, and Fenris had shown no interest or recognition after reading about them. Not until now.

 

“You should have asked Varric, I’m afraid I haven’t… I haven’t really been in contact with them.”

 

Fenris stopped walking, turning to narrow his eyes at Hawke, “You do not know?”

 

The accusation in Fenris’ tone cut deep, guilt filling Hawke’s stomach. If Fenris truly remembered and cared about their shared past, of  _ course _ he would care about the others. Why had Hawke thought otherwise? 

 

“I’m… sorry.” Hawke felt odd, confronted.

 

Fenris’ eyes narrowed further, “Why not?”

 

Hawke fumbled, “I just… haven’t? I’ve been living on the road and in the wilderness for years, I was a fugitive most of that time, there was no way to keep contact.”

 

“Varric wrote to you.” Fenris pointed out. 

 

“Yeah but that was because…”  _ of you _ . Why did Hawke feel so terrible about this suddenly, why was Fenris judging him for it? “Listen, I can tell you what Varric told me, he’s kept tabs on everyone.”

 

Fenris shifted his weight in the snow, crossing his arms under his loose cloak as his ears pinned. “Did you not care to think of them?”

 

“What?” Hawke’s voice felt too loud. 

 

Fenris lifted his chin, “What would you have done, if your hunt for me failed? What life would you have in my absence?”

 

Hawke’s hands shook into fists, his jaw tightening as he stormed past Fenris and continued down the trail. They didn’t have time for this. They had to make it to the camp, they had to find a place to set up the tents before the sun fell. Fenris was the last person he needed to judge him for  _ trying to save his life _ , hadn’t they gone through this already?

 

Fenris did not follow, but simply stood expectant on the hill Hawke had stomped off of. What did he want Hawke to say? 

 

“I have no life  _ without you _ .” Hawke yelled back to him, the cold air swirling in his lungs as he tried to breathe past his words. Why was he so angry? Why was Fenris trying to corner and question him, guilt him this way? Hadn’t he disappointed enough people? Hadn’t he sacrificed enough for Fenris? “There is nothing else.”

 

Hawke turned away and continued down the path. Anger rolled in his head, flames catching and flickering on every dark and hurtful thing he had hidden away. He listened for Fenris’ following steps and heard nothing. His hands twisted tighter as he turned to see Fenris still waiting on the hill he had left him on.

 

“Is that all you have to say?” Hawke shouted back, hating the burn on his tongue but unable to stop himself. “You finally remember what we had, everything we went through in Kirkwall and all you can say is…”

 

Hawke trailed off, his heart aching. He did not want this. He did not want to be angry at Fenris. He did not want to push him away, or subject him to the broken pieces inside of him. He had hurt so many people with them. He had stared into the abyss more often than anyone knew, wondering what he would do if Fenris was never found. Who he would be if he failed this final mission. 

 

Fenris walked down the trail, bare feet stepping softly in the prints Hawke left behind him. His eyes were locked with Hawke’s, the red glow unnerving and alien as much as it was comforting. Hawke stiffened, ready for things to go worse, even as his body ached for some form of comfort.

 

“Hawke.” Fenris said, his voice steady against the storm inside of Hawke. “What will you do if this quest fails?”

 

It was not a threat, at least Hawke did not think it was. He took a shuddering breath, the anger inside souring to something quieter. “I don’t know.”

 

Fenris watched him, eyes boring deep into Hawke as if Fenris saw something he himself did not. “I do not know what  _ I _ will do if this quest succeeds.” 

 

A lump rose in Hawke’s throat, Fenris continued to watch him as something within his gaze softened. 

 

“I do not…” Fenris continued, frowning away from Hawke as he spoke. “What I know and what I remember are not clear cut. I feel I am a stranger within my own body. And to know that you have sacrificed so much in my pursuit I... It weighs heavily upon me. I do not know if I would have…”

 

His eyes widened slightly as the words died on his tongue. Fenris stared at the horizon and Hawke swore he saw him tremble, knowing he would not shiver from the cold.

 

“I only hope that you will have something to return to, in case we fail.” Fenris squared his shoulders and nodded to the horizon before looking back to Hawke. “I do not know what either fate holds for me.”

 

Hawke wanted to reach out for his hand, to reassure him that they would  _ not _ fail and he would be there for Fenris when Danarius was dealt with. But he couldn’t. He had taken the freedom of the mountains for granted, Fenris was still trapped by the Inquisition and on the invisible chain of his master.

 

“I’m sorry, I should not have lost my temper…” Hawke muttered, although the anger inside of him had not dissipated but simply abbided. 

 

Fenris shook his head mournfully. “I forgot my place.” 

 

The words raked a chill down Hawke’s spine, the tone foreign and mechanical in Fenris’ voice. He opened his mouth to argue, to soothe, to try and erase the words from the air when Fenris moved past him down the trail. His pace was brisk, and silence followed as if their conversation hadn’t even happened. Hawke’s stomach twisted and he bowed his head as he followed, determined to do better.

 

-

 

There had been no more conversation as they made up their camp for the night. Hawke had found a place against a steep cliff, protecting them from the wind’s chilly reach. The snow had not stopped falling but became lighter and slower, drifting down as the moon gave them light. Their tents were set up across from each other and the fire was built. 

 

Fenris sat in the entry to his tent, bare feet in the snow as he leaned back on his hands. The pose was so casual, so comfortable, that Hawke almost smiled at him. Why didn’t he smile? Did he think it would be leading? Was he overthinking everything? Fenris had already made it clear, multiple times, that he did not know what he wanted and was anxious of what was to come. He had to keep his distance, it was the only fair thing to do.

 

“Will you tell me about our friends now?” Fenris asked, a coy smirk appearing on the edge of his words before he could straighten out his face.

 

Hawke nodded as he sat himself down, “Let’s see, Varric told me not long ago… Aveline is still in Kirkwall, still working with the guard and repairing the city. Isabela took off and is Maker-knows-where right now, but she’s sailing again so she should be happy…”

 

Hawke watched Fenris for reactions, noticed flashes of recognition in his eyes, but he did not press for more information. He simply listened. It was nice.

 

“Merrill is with the local dalish clans, protecting them from slavers in the marches. I heard she’s been in contact with the Inquisitor too, which doesn’t really surprise me.” And that only left…

 

“What of Anders?” Fenris asked.

 

“Oh.” Hawke scratched at his beard and stared up at the sky, the sun had long left the mountains but the sky was still pink and orange, it held no advice for his answer. “That’s complicated…”

 

“You didn't… actually kill him did you?” Fenris’ eyes were narrowed slightly and Hawke squirmed under the scrutiny. 

 

“You don’t think I did?” Hawke asked.

 

“No.” Fenris’ ears pinned slowly, mulling the word before continuing. “You would not have killed a friend.”

 

“Honestly I’m so bad at keeping that lie going.” Hawke breathed, relieved. It had been Varric’s idea, back during the Uprising, when Anders had fled the gates. Hawke hated the lie. “Of course I couldn’t kill him. Things had been… especially bad between us. He hadn’t talked to me since-”

 

Fenris watched him curiously and Hawke desperately tried to recall what Varric had written in the book regarding that day at the Hanged Man. 

 

“Since you left.” Hawke concluded, the words stale on his tongue.

 

Fenris looked away, blinked hard at his red-lined feet as they dug into the snow. 

 

“I do not remember.” Fenris almost whispered. “I remember the Hanged Man, in part, I remember so much but nothing about…”

 

He looked lost for a moment, within himself, and Hawke let him have silence. 

 

“I killed her.” Fenris said suddenly. 

 

“Who?” Hawke asked, startled.

 

Fenris met his eyes again, the red showed nothing he did not want to reveal. “Varania. I had forgotten her but…” His eyes trailed away, clearly recalling something much more vivid in his memory. “She was an apprentice, I always thought it was strange that master would have accepted an elf as one. I never thought… He never said…”

 

A familiar hatred rose up in Hawke, turning in his stomach and burning in every limb. His hands turned to fists and he stared up at the darkening sky to try and temper the rage that swelled. He wanted to curse Danarius, to ask Fenris what happened, to added fuel to the fire that riled within. He held himself, kept to the silence.

 

Fenris chuckled. A hollow noise that betrayed more than his words did. It was easier to laugh than cry sometimes, Hawke knew, but hearing it was like a growl of thunder threatening storm.

 

“She thought I plotted against her.” Fenris recalled, voice quiet and flat. “Now I understand. She thought I remembered. But I didn’t. I…”

 

Hawke looked to Fenris, saw his eyes darting about the fire and the snow, but unseeing. Searching through memories and thoughts. Hawke thought about Varania, pushing his own feelings aside, he had not expected Danarius to keep her around. But he had, after whatever it was he did to Fenris with blood magic to force him to forget  _ everything _ . It was proof, wasn’t it? Proof to Fenris that it wasn’t all lies, that Danarius himself had a hand to play in the deception he was experiencing. 

 

But instead of feeling happy, Hawke just felt a little sick.

 

“You killed her?” He asked quietly.

 

Fenris looked up, pulled from his thoughts, he looked ashamed. 

 

“I was ordered to.” He said. “The red lyrium made her paranoid, she attacked me in front of our master.”

 

A picture was beginning to form in Hawke’s mind. He wanted to complete it, to have some sense of what Fenris had gone through back in Tevinter, but also he wasn’t sure he could bare it.

 

“I’m sorry.” Hawke looked to the fire, watched the flames claim the wood into embers and ash. “For everything, I wish I could have…”

 

Hawke shook his head.

 

Fenris chuckled, lighter this time, and Hawke’s heart leapt.

 

“This feels good.” Fenris nodded at the fire, diverting the conversation. “Even if my memories are unclear to me, this feeling is familiar. I would take comfort in it.”

 

Hawke’s heart was thumping up to his ears, he felt he must have misheard Fenris somehow. “What does?”

 

Fenris didn’t meet his eyes, shoulders closing in self-consciously, “Camping in small numbers, talking like this…”

 

“Better than camping with the Venatori?” Hawke asked.

 

Fenris stilled, his face fell and Hawke instantly regretted asking. 

 

“Nevermind,” Hawke said quickly, pretending he didn’t notice Fenris reaching up to touch his uncollared throat. “But yeah, we used to do this a lot. The first time you set up your tent away from the rest of us, in the brush. You didn’t like us having a fire either.”

 

Fenris had not recovered from the previous question, sitting forward to wrap his arms around his legs as he stared into the fire. “Hunters.” He said, “I would have been concerned about an ambush.”

 

Hawke nodded, noting the distance Fenris put between himself and the Fenris from the past. “But after a while you warmed up to it, Isabella got you to play her drinking games, I was surprised.”

 

“She drank more than me.” Fenris said. “I always took last guard.”

 

“Yeah.” Hawke smiled despite himself, the comfort of the memories transporting him even if only for a second. “I always had to cover her shift, she never woke up. I think she did it on purpose.”

 

Fenris pulled his feet into his tent slowly, “Goodnight Hawke.” He said softly, before the tent closed up.

 

It felt abrupt, and perhaps under different circumstances Hawke would have fretted over it. But the simple goodnight had set something aflutter in Hawke’s chest. Hope, or something more dangerous than that, swirled around inside of him before he retired to his own tent. It took him some time to fall asleep, realizing it was the first time they had slept this close like this in years.   

 

\---------------

 

Hawke woke the next morning expecting the previous day to be a dream. Expecting to crawl from his tent and find that Fenris had ghosted off in the night. But Fenris was already awake and packing up his tent. He said good morning to Hawke, making his head spin, and went on as if camping through the Frostbacks together was something they had done for years.

 

Fenris seemed eager to make it to the Inquisition camp, though. Waiting for Hawke to pack his tent and thread his bow with what seemed a business-like impatience. There was no time for anything beyond idle chit-chat, Fenris giving only the most minimal of answers to anything Hawke said. It seemed fair, he had opened up more the previous day than he had during his entire imprisonment. Best not to push.

 

They started off in the direction of the Inquisition camp, marching through knee-deep snow for most of the morning. The snow slowed Hawke down more than it did Fenris, who was still unbothered by the cold. Even after the sun began to shine over the peaks the traveling was harder than it had been the previous days and Hawke expected them to arrive at the camp later at this rate. He had expected to reach it by nightfall, or at least be very close. But now they might not make it until a half a day later or perhaps longer.

 

Hawke couldn’t say that he minded. The cold suited Fenris and he was finally coming around. Even if it was difficult, even if he was having to come to terms with things he had long since forgotten. Like his sister. The thought was heavy, even for Hawke, who held no love for Varania after the Hanged Man. He couldn’t imagine what Fenris was going through.

 

Fenris did not speak for the rest of the morning, eyes far away and clouded with thought. Hawke wanted to talk more, to see what other familiar memories could be threaded out of his mind. Hawke wanted to say so much more, wanted to see if there was anything he could personally help to heal and recover.

 

“How far are we from the camp?” Fenris asked eventually.

 

“We are going to be delayed by this snow…” Hawke answered as he forced his feet through the thick layers of snow, grateful that it hadn’t frozen over yet. “Tomorrow earliest. Could be longer if conditions don’t improve.”

 

“How far is the camp from our destination?” Fenris asked.

 

“From the Western Approach? Oh, at least four days if we don’t find trouble.” Hawke answered, squinting at the horizon and trying to recall the maps in his mind’s eye. “But there is a lot of trouble to find these days…”

 

“Hmm.” Fenris hummed. “When I was traveling I did not see any ‘rifts’ the mages spoke of. Our only troubles were highwaymen or the Inquisition.”

 

“When you were with the Venatori…” Hawke thought out loud.

 

“You asked about them.” Fenris said and Hawke cursed under his breath. “I know the Inquisition wants to know what I know of them.”

 

Hawke was quiet, waiting for Fenris to continue his train of thought, but there was no further comment. 

 

“Yes?” Hawke broke the silence. “I wasn’t interrogating you last night.”

 

A soft chuckle from behind Hawke, “No, you were not. You are too clumsy to be an interrogator, or a spy.”

 

“So you finally decided I’m not Qunari?” Hawke risked a smile over his shoulder and was still surprised to see Fenris smirking back at him.

 

“I decided that some time ago.” Fenris answered. “And I only mention the Venatori to tell you, truthfully, there is very little that I know.”

 

Hawke stopped and turned to face Fenris. He was being truthful, Hawke could tell by how clear his red eyes were, no veil or wall within them. He was admitting information regarding his ‘master’, the men he was so loyal to only weeks before.

 

“Really?” Hawke asked. 

 

“I was not told of any plans.” Fenris nodded, confirming his own words. 

 

“No I mean, you’re ok with telling me this?” Hawke asked. “You don’t need to tell me anything about them if you don’t want to. I don’t care.”

 

Fenris looked dubious at this statement. “I find that difficult to believe.”

 

“I care about you.” Hawke shook his head, why was talking so difficult sometimes? Why couldn’t he ever just say what he meant? “I don’t need to know about the Venatori or Danarius, that doesn’t matter anymore, you don’t need to tell me everything.”

 

Fenris’ expression changed and Hawke’s stomach flipped, had he misstepped?

 

“Hawke.” Fenris said, “Are we not traveling to capture my master?”

 

Something had gone wrong, Hawke had done something wrong, but as his brain scrambled backwards he couldn’t find the mistake that had taken him here. In the past, Hawke had managed to quell Fenris’ fears with those assertions, but now Fenris seemed disturbed by it. 

 

“Fenris I…” Hawke fumbled, looking for something, anything he could say.

 

Fenris bowed his head slightly, eyes calculating down at Hawke’s feet. “You told me that you would release me if you had the power to. You said you would let me return to my master if it was what I wanted.”

 

“Is that what you want?” Hawke’s voice was swallowed by the mountain wind.

 

“I do not know.” Fenris met his eyes. “I just want to know if that is still the truth.”

 

Hawke did not speak. The wind whistled through them, giving him a chill that rattled his very bones. Fenris waited, never taking his eyes away from Hawke’s.

 

“Yes.” Hawke whispered. And it was true, Hawke had no means to stop Fenris from going back if he wanted to. He had never had any sort of control over Fenris, never wanted to impede him with expectations or orders at any point in their relationship. Fenris was a free man, even if he didn’t know it yet, he always was. Hawke could not force him to be anything but who he wanted to be.

 

He wished he could have voiced those thoughts, told Fenris these unspoken truths that he had alway taken for granted. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know how, and any part of him that did had long since been lost in the search for Fenris.

 

“Thank you.” Fenris bowed his head slightly, the same way Hawke had seen Tevinter slaves do in the Venatori camps. “Let us move on.”

 

The conversation was over and they were back to trudging through the snow. Hawke was shaken, more frightened now by what decisions Fenris would make than he was when Fenris had first run off. He trusted him. He  _ trusted _ him dammit, he knew Fenris would do what was right for himself when the time came. 

 

Hawke just wished he could say all the things he felt in his heart, all the truths about Fenris had had held dear for years. The thought of Fenris leaving before he could voice them weighed heavy inside him as he walked. How would Fenris be able to return to irons and slavery after remembering everything? After knowing what he and Hawke had together? 

 

He pushed the thoughts away, remembering that he had to trust Fenris. He was sure Fenris had been this way before, perhaps back with the fog warriors. Waiting for Danarius to return to Seheron and save him even while he experienced freedom for the first time. 

 

Hawke just hoped that it wouldn’t take Fenris murdering him to realize what he  _ really _ wanted.

 

They walked on until dusk, setting up their camp in a small mountain cave as the sun set behind the mountain peaks. They managed to pull a fire together, lighting up the small space. They ate in comfortable silence, the tension that had hung with them during the day lifting as they enjoyed each other’s company.

 

“I see that you kept it.” Fenris commented after he had finished eating, tilting his head at Hawke as he settled onto the cool stone under them.

 

“Kept what?” Hawke answered, perplexed.

 

“The token.” Fenris nodded his head toward Hawke’s wrist. 

 

Hawke lifted his hand, the red token wrapped and tied over his gauntlet. The ends had frayed and shrunk it’s length, the color had almost completely faded from the elements and Hawke’s efforts to wash blood from it. Hawke had almost forgotten it was there. 

 

“Varric found it.” Hawke said blankly. 

 

“And you wore it all of this time?” Fenris asked, eyes stuck on the red fabric.

 

“Yeah.” Hawke fidgeted with the frayed edge before sitting up, “Do you…”

 

Fenris quickly shook his head, “No. I believe you deserve it more. I am not the same man you knew then.”

 

Hawke winced at the tone in Fenris’ voice, wanted to tell him all the things he had held in his chest all day. “You are still… the man I love.”

 

Fenris looked up at Hawke, he looked small, cornered, “Am I? I am not sure what man I am anymore, how could you say that when you do not know who I am.”

 

Hawke moved closer, his heart beating loud in his ears, the fire and the cave melting away as Fenris became the brightest thing in the world. His heart beat so fast he was sure it would burst from his chest.

 

“You are still  _ you _ Fenris.” Hawke’s voice was strained, too heavy to pass from his lips. “I watched you grow, become more and more _ yourself _ through the years. You are the strongest man I know, resilient, you have seen horrors other men would be driven mad by. You experienced hardship that others would have given up in the face of. You are…”

 

Hawke choked on his words as Fenris’ eyes locked with his. They were wide, deep as wells and the red was unable to deter Hawke now. He could  _ see _ the Fenris he knew deep within them, the soft vulnerability and the raw passion that was held back only by the demons that lived within him. 

 

“You are the most amazing person I have ever met.” Hawke continued, his heart felt it would rip apart, he felt dizzy as if he stood toe to toe with a staggering cliff. He had to jump and he could not stop himself as he flew. “You are worth everything, and I have no future without you. You are my future.”

 

“Hawke…” Fenris looked pained, held back, but he did not move away as Hawke came closer. “I  _ know _ , but I cannot, I..”

 

“We can leave.” Hawke’s leg bumped Fenris’, the heat from the lyrium almost as hot as the fire near them. When had he gotten so close? He did not care. “We can run from the Inquisition, there’s nothing to stop us, we can start over.”

 

Fenris’ ears were pinned back, his breath shallow as Hawke felt the burning lyrium radiate off of his body and against the stone around them. Hawke had somehow ended up with a knee on the ground and his other foot planted next to Fenris. Close enough that he could see the fire-swirl of the red lyrium within the markings on his chin and neck, the rise of his chest under his armor, Hawke could swear he felt his  _ breath _ . 

 

“Hawke…” Fenris whispered and Hawke could smell the distantly familiar scent of his hair, his skin. 

 

Hawke was falling, falling fast and there was no control before he hit the ground. 

 

He leaned in the last inches and kissed Fenris. His mouth was warm, impossibly warm. It burned as Hawke kissed Fenris deeply, his head swimming at the realization that this was  _ real _ . He could feel his hair brush his face, feel the ghost of a breath as he kissed deeper. Fenris’ mouth was wet, soft, better than he could have remembered over his long absence. 

 

And hot.  _ Burning hot _ . It didn’t matter. Hawke was kissing Fenris, they were alone and he remembered and they were- but Fenris had not kissed back. He was shock-still. Hawke’s stomach fell, dread filling him as he pulled himself away.

 

Fenris’ eyes were lidded, his arms and hands hung limply as his eyes drew away. Further and further away as the seconds ticked on, distant and empty. He had not moved, had not refused the kiss and yet-

 

Horror filled Hawke, hatred as he felt sick. Had he just  _ forced _ himself onto Fenris?! What had he done, was he no better than the magisters who had forced their desires and needs upon him in Tevinter? 

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Hawke’s tongue twisted, he felt he would be sick as he backed away. Standing and retreating to the other end of the cave with his hands up.  _ How could he have done this? _ . “Fenris, forgive me I…”

 

Fenris had not moved, lips slack in utter submission as his eyes slowly trailed up to meet Hawke. He was dazed, as if he had awoken from some injury, hurt so deeply trained into him that he did not know to defend or cry out in pain. Hawke remembered the Venatori tossing jokes of Danarius using him, being unable to do so with the red lyrium. The hatred within himself grew, thickening in his chest ‘til his heart was barely able to beat. He wanted to tear it out for its deceit, for the pain it had inflicted.

 

Fenris stood on weak legs, his eyes narrowed. The lyrium glowed gently and Hawke’s back hit the cave wall as he backed up in fear. Fenris was going to retaliate, he was going to tear his heart out from him as he had seen him do to those who had done him lesser offence. Hawke deserved it. He did, didn’t he? He was no better than those who enslaved him, taking advantage and twisting something pure into a weapon.

 

“Hawke-” Fenris croaked, his voice unlike his own as if it burst from a bubble. His eyes became clearer as he neared Hawke, his movements determined as he reached him.

 

Fenris pressed his lips against Hawke. Hawke was shocked by the molten heat, pinned against the wall suddenly as Fenris’ hands clamped on his arm and shoulder. The grip burned, hot through Hawke’s clothes as if he had been lit on fire. Fenris leaned close, tilting his head as he kissed deep and Hawke tried to cry out against it before he pushed Fenris off.

 

He was gasping, his mouth tender as if he had swallowed boiling water. Fenris had staggered off, and he looked… confused. 

 

“What-” Hawke sucked in a breath of the cold mountain air to soothe, “-are you doing?”

 

Fenris looked surprised, hurt, “What am  _ I _ doing? I thought-”

 

They stared at each other, Fenris’ confusion turning to hurt and embarrassment as Hawke gasped for cold air. 

 

“I shouldn’t have.” Hawke managed on his burnt tongue as he padded around his armor for his flask. “We should not.”

 

“What?” Fenris looked shocked, hurt, and Hawke couldn’t even start to understand what  _ he _ was thinking. 

 

“I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have kissed you without asking.” Hawke explained after taking a long drink of cold water. His mouth felt numb. 

 

Fenris’ eye were wide, his was stiff where he stood, “No you- I owe you a debt, and-”

 

Hawke groaned and Fenris stopped abruptly, his expression torn and lost. 

 

“Maker, no, no, no.” Hawke groaned. “I made a  _ mistake _ . You do not owe me this. You owe me nothing Fenris, you never have. This isn’t how this should have happened. You… oh Maker, you don’t even know do you?”

 

Fenris looked as if he had been struck, eyes searching around the cave as if an explanation could be found there. “Apologies if I have I caused offence…”

 

Hawke groaned again, sure that his dinner was going to come up if this conversation continued, “Fenris, no, no listen…. You did nothing wrong. I’m the one who did something wrong. I’m so sorry I’ve done this to you. I’m…”

 

The tears were coming, hot and stinging in his eyes as he blinked them back. He had never considered this. He had never considered the barriers they would need to crash through before there was any chance of them being together as they had been. And Maker, he wished he had not kissed him. He wished their first kiss after reuniting had not gone like this.

 

“Maybe we will figure this out.” Hawke nodded to himself as he moved towards his tent. “I don’t know, maybe we won’t. Maybe you’ll go back. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

 

Fenris watched him go, something dejected in his posture as he stood alone. Hawke remembered Fenris telling him of the fog warriors, how they had ‘loved freely’, and how he had always suspected he had  _ meant _ something when he said that. He wondered at what point Fenris had learned what love truly meant. If it could be taught.

 

“I’m sorry.” Fenris said, helplessly, quietly. 

 

Hawke nodded as he reached his tent, pulling back the flap and pausing to find what else there was to say. How to not leave the night as sour as it was now, if there was any saving that could be done. 

 

“We’ll figure this out.” He said, “You’ll know, soon, what you want. And you can tell me when you know. Don’t let anyone else tell you want that is, Fenris.”

 

Hawke crawled into his tent but did not sleep. And judging by the slow dwindling of the fire and the slight glow after it burned out, Fenris did not sleep either.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this easy emotional tide pool while it lasts everyone, next chapter things are going to heat up.
> 
> As always thanks for all the support, all the comments and your readership! ♥

They reached the Inquisition camp quickly the following day. Despite Fenris’ lack of sleep, they were able to keep a brisk pace trailing down from the higher peaks they had been travelling through. The weather had let up and the snow drifts became less thick and dense as they descended. 

 

Hawke moved quickly, skipping down rocky slopes like a ram and marching through the snow without rest. Fenris had to work to keep up, and even though the snow and cold slowed him less than Hawke, after a while it had felt like Fenris was needing to chase after  _ him _ . 

 

They didn’t exchange words. Not since the previous night. What could Fenris even say to him? He still was unsure of how to interpret the events that had transpired between them. Not just the last night, but the entire time they spent in the mountains. Fenris could not help but harbor guilt about it all, fearing what his Master would say if he knew even a fraction of it. Fenris had completed the book and had been left with more questions than answers. And yet, memories had bloomed as orange blossoms in the spring, small and contained until they unfurled and opened. 

 

It was overwhelming. But at least in the mountains he had the solitude and the cold to help him think. He wondered why his Master had hidden all this from him, years of history erased in favor of another. He must have had his reasons, ones that a simple elf like him would not be able to fathom. But he could not deny that his time with Hawke was-

 

“There’s the camp.” Hawke announced suddenly, perched on a rocky lip of the mountain. Fenris joined and Hawke pointed down to a clutch of large military tents. Horses were tied off nearby, a few men processing fresh game, soldiers milling about within the camp as smoke trailed up from the fires. “Our party will be there, we’ll try to find them first.”

 

Fenris nodded and followed. He was no longer perturbed by how comfortable it felt to follow Hawke. How much the man’s voice, his mannerisms, and his very presence brought Fenris a feeling he couldn’t quite explain. It was similar to the peace and submission he found in his Master’s shadow, but more complex, warmer. It made his heart beat too fast if he thought on it for more than a moment. Despite everything he felt  _ safe _ for the first time in what felt like years with Hawke.

 

He shook his head slightly as they neared the camp. Hawke had made it clear he was not interested in Fenris, not now, not as he was. Hadn’t he? The rejection from the previous night still stung in Fenris’ chest, but it was hard to understand after Hawke had said what he had, after he had done what he did.

 

There was a flicker of movement on the path ahead of them and Fenris silenced his thoughts, ears twitching as he listened to the soft crunch of snow beyond them. He moved past Hawke, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword over his shoulder.

 

Hawke made a sound, the start of a question, just as Fenris unsheathed his sword. A figure appeared on the trail before them and drew daggers. Fenris stood between the hooded figure and Hawke, sword heavy in his hand. He tightened his grip, he could depend on the blade and not the lyrium. 

 

“Stand down!” The hooded figure shouted.

 

Fenris tightened his grip on the sword, waiting for Hawke’s word.

 

“Fenris!” Hawke growled as he tugged on the back of Fenris’ cloak.

 

Fenris wavered but did not lower his weapon, he wouldn’t let anyone hurt Hawke, “Tell me and it is done.” He said quietly.

 

“Maker- put your sword down, she’s with the Inquisition!” Hawke stepped around Fenris, eyes daggers as he put a hand out in front of Fenris to call him down. He turned to the hooded woman on the trail, “Apologies! We are with the Inquisition!”

 

Fenris lowered his sword reluctantly, recoiling slightly from the correction. He had intended to protect Hawke and he responded as if he was mad. An untethered animal. But wasn’t Danarius displeased with him in the same way before Fenris was taken? Had his judgments and reflexes as a bodyguard deteriorated that much?

 

“Identify yourselves!” The hooded woman, a scout by the looks of it now, shouted down the trail to them. She had not put away her daggers and Fenris’ nerves were kept on edge, ready to throw himself in their way should she attack anyways.

 

“Hawke, Calum Hawke.” Hawke called down, hands slowly rising. “I’m working for the Inquisition. My party should have arrived here a few days ago…”

 

A flicker of recognition flashed in the scout’s eyes before she relaxed her posture slightly, “Is he the prisoner?”

 

Fenris looked away, his ears pinned back. Would he need to be caged or chained in the camp, as he had been at Skyhold? He disliked the thought of it. 

 

He supposed he would have to dissect that thought later as well.

 

Hawke paused before answering, “Yes, but he is an  _ agent _ of the Inquisition and I would have him treated as such.”

 

There was a pause as the woman considered this, staring down Fenris as he finally sheathed his sword upon his back. Her gaze reminded him of those at the judgment, the Venatori at the camps who spoke ill of his Master. He shrunk under the stare.

 

“As long as you can control him. And the red lyrium.” The scout responded unkindly. Fenris thought it may be warranted, but he did not appreciate this scout speaking to Hawke in such a way. “The captain of our camp has reservations about this… agent. You will have to meet with him upon entry.”

 

“Understood.” Hawke said stiffly. 

 

The agent stood silent for a second, eyes darting from Hawke to Fenris before she relaxed her posture, put her blades away, and stepped aside for them to pass. Hawke strode forward instantly, shoulders squared in a familiar fashion. Fenris met her eye as he passed, it was clear from her expression that his presence was severely unwanted. 

 

A dozen paces away from the scout, Hawke turned to Fenris, “Do  _ not _ do that again, please.” He couldn’t look Fenris in the eye but his tone dripped with frustration and resignation. “These people are not going to be happy to see you, you don’t need to help by pulling your sword on everyone you see. They didn’t even want you to have a weapon.”

 

Fenris’ ears pinned, Hawke had gone from apologetic and light-handed with him to demanding and controlling overnight. First the kiss, now this. Fenris should have expected it. 

 

“I wanted to protect you.” Fenris found Hawke’s eyes, watching the weight within them change.

 

Hawke let out a sigh that turned into a groan, “I know.” He turned back to the path slowly towards the camp below, “But everyone else thinks of you as a murderer.”

 

Ah, the Queen. It had been easy to forget Denerim. It had been unpleasant at best, and its memory strained and buckled under Fenris’ gaze. It was clear that those who called these lands home would remember him as a villain. A monster. They were justified, even if Fenris had not formed an opinion of it. Good slaves did not question their orders.

 

The reception they received at the camp wasn’t any better. On the outskirts Fenris felt the eyes of the men and women upon his back, his ears twitching at muttered insults and curses.  _ Tevinter _ , they spat on the ground behind him,  _ Venatori scum _ . Hawke seemed to hesitate before heading into the thicker part of the camp, where the small personal tents gave way to the large wood and canvas tents adorned with crests of the Inquisition. Fenris was reminded of the larger Venatori camps and the tent his Master had occupied. But this camp had no chained warriors and the elves who lingered and stared were adorned with armor or wild tattoos. 

 

“We need to find Cherrelle.” Hawke muttered as he looked back to Fenris. “I won’t take you to talk to this captain, he can screw himself.”

 

They twisted around the outer ring of tents, avoiding the center of camp. Fenris gazed around curiously, knowing he would need to retell of this place once he returned to his Master. He had found out so little about their base in the mountains, this would have to do. All sorts of men seemed to follow the Inquisition, Fenris noticed colors of templars, wardens, and many others he couldn’t recognize but guessed to be of southern note. Free elves watched him with conflicted interest. At one corner of the camp Fenris was surprised by Tal Vashoth, who he was happy to match glares with as they passed.

 

Fenris’ ear twitched at a distant call of Hawke’s name. Hawke stopped too, scanning around him for the source until his shoulders dropped with relief. Fenris turned to see Cherrelle and Elias rushing up to them, similar looks of relief upon their faces.

 

“Hawke, finally!” Cherrelle threw her arms around Hawke, rocking him slightly in her grasp as Hawke blinked rapidly. “I was about to go looking for you, I was so worried! And you found Fenris!”

 

Fenris looked away, uncomfortable with the Orelasian woman’s open affection. His eyes met the elf, Elias, and they both averted their gaze instantly. 

 

“Yes!” Hawke wiggled out of Cherrelle’s embrace, his face flushed with embarrassment. “The scout on the hill told me I’m supposed to talk to the captain?”

 

“Oh.” Cherrelle rolled her eyes dramatically. “He’s a bastard. I’ve worked with him before, ex-templar and opinionated about  _ everything _ . But you have official mission from the Inquisitor himself so he can’t actually do anything.”

 

“We tried to keep things quiet about Fenris.” Elias said then, “But word gets around these small camps quick, it’s been a bit of a nightmare.”

 

“Apologies for making you wait.” Fenris said, and even though his voice was quiet everyone turned to stare at him.

 

“It’s fine.” Elias answered, inspecting his gauntlet suddenly. 

 

“Of course.” Cherrelle smiled. “I’m just glad you’re both safe. Now if you don’t mind, you can follow us back to our tents and help us break them down while Hawke talks to the captain. The faster we’re out of this camp, the happier we’ll all be I think.”

 

Fenris looked to Hawke, who seemed quiet and out of place in the busy camp and with their companions. He nodded and Fenris returned the gesture. Fenris wished they were still in the mountains, the stilted silence and their brief exchange on the hill left Fenris lonely and confused. He wanted to discuss it but knew he could not.

 

Hawke parted to push further into the camp as Cherrelle led the way to their tents. More sneering and stares followed, but Fenris felt more comfortable with it when Hawke was not around to witness it. He didn’t like the way Hawke carried the burden. 

 

The tents were out in the outskirts of the camp, set up in perfect row in line with other small personal tents. Fenris recognized them from the first night in the mountains although he had not stayed that night. Cherrelle began to empty the tent and pack her bag, shoving scrolls of maps and other necessities in as Elias began to do the same.

 

“Where is the dwarf?” Fenris asked then, noticing that he had not spotted the freckle-faced scout in the camp. Easy enough to miss, he supposed.

 

“Harding was only taking us this far.” Cherrelle said from inside her tent before backing out with a folded blanket in her arms. “She has other duties elsewhere.”

 

Fenris felt a touch of regret at the poor impression he must have made upon her. “What of the horses?”

 

“Returned to the horse master.” Elias answered as he struggled with his bed roll. “We gotta walk all the way to the Approach from here.”

 

Fenris watched Elias attempt to tighten the roll and tie it off and fail twice.“...Do you require assistance?” he asked.

 

Elias’ eyes shot up to Fenris bewildered as a cornered rabbit. He shrugged, “Sure.”

 

Fenris knelt and took the roll from the elf, folding the material into itself tightly as he had remembered how to do and practised in the mountains. Elias watched him idly, he seemed to feel awkward with the exchange, although Fenris was sure  _ he  _ felt more awkward. He hadn’t done a task like this for an elf since…

 

“I’m sorry, by the way.” Elias muttered, his eyes square on the tied bedroll in Fenris’ hands.

 

Fenris looked up at him, confused only for a moment before he recalled the argument they had at the fire days ago. He stiffened slightly, remembering how uncomfortable he had been and the unruly things the elf had said to him. But he couldn’t find anger or offence within him now, so he shrugged.

 

“It is of no matter.” Fenris set aside the bedroll and tried to think of something else to say. “I am not accustomed to elves… speaking their mind in such a way. I suppose it is something I should get used to.”

 

Fenris gave Elias a small smile, hoping it would express the sincerity he felt even if he wasn’t fully convinced of it.

 

Elias stared for a moment before huffing a small laugh, “Yeah, well, most people aren’t used to it either. You’d think southerners would be more… open, but no. The mage thing doesn’t help, or the warden thing now. So, thank you, but it’s alright, I understand.”

 

The elf bowed his head slightly, not like a slave, but in an odd sort of embarrassment before getting up to start taking down his tent.

 

“I saw others wearing the warden colours in the camp.” Fenris said as he rose, looking for a way to assist. “Are they not your allies?”

 

Elias’ face fell, his skin paling slightly, “It’s not that simple. And I’d rather not talk about it here, if that’s alright.”

 

Fenris nodded his understanding, reminded of himself and the Venatori. He shook off the thought and instead looked around the nearby tents and the milling occupants as he helped untie the canvas of the elf’s tent. As he expected, the surrounding men and women were openly staring at him, with all but a few turning away from his attention. Fenris turned back to the tent, the faster they could leave the better.

 

Elias looked over his shoulder, matching Fenris’ wandering gaze before looking back to him, “Yanno,” He said, quietly, “I know they are  _ probably _ staring because of, uh, ‘recent events’. But some of them are probably interested because of the Tale of the Champion.”

 

Fenris’ eyes narrowed as he rolled the canvas up, “The book Varric wrote?” He couldn’t imagine that book he carried in his pack had passed many hands before it came to him.

 

“Yeah. It’s really popular, everyone stares at Hawke because of it.” Elias took down the tent poles, sneaking a sweeping glance at the lingering gazes on them. “I’d be surprised if there was anyone here who hasn’t read it.”

 

“What.” Fenris blinked, a prickling chill running up his spine. Had  _ all  _ of these strangers read the same book he had? About him and Hawke being romantic? About him being an escaped slave and him attempting to  _ kill _ his Master?

 

Did his  _ Master _ read this book? Had it travelled to Tevinter? Had he embarrassed and disgraced his Master further with its wide influence?

 

His breath fluttered in his chest, his lungs as insubstantial as cobwebs against a great gale of wind. He suddenly wished he could vanish from here, call on his neglected lyrium and pass from the camp without an eye to follow his path. Disappear into the mountains again, far from here, far from everyone. But-

 

“Hey.” Hawke’s voice. Fenris steadied, looking up at him as he strode up with a conflicted expression. “We ready to head out?”

 

“Yes.” Fenris let out his breath.

 

“I’m ready.” Cherrelle stood with her pack upon her back.

 

“Oh wait,” Elias dropped the last parts of his tent into a pile and jumped to his feet. “I have something I need to go get, but you guys can head out of the camp. I’ll meet you on the road outside of camp.”

 

Cherrelle frowned at him, “What are you getting? We can just go with you-”

 

“No. Haha, no. It’s fine, I’ll see you outside the camp don’t worry.” Elias smiled and waved them off before quickly packing his tent and hefting his bag on his back and rushing off into the camp with a quick goodbye.

 

Cherrelle shook her head slowly before looking back to Hawke, “The captain gave you orders I suspect?”

 

Hawke looked off in the distance, the same avoidant gaze he gave when a topic came up he didn’t want to discuss. “Yeah.”

 

Cherrelle waited with eyebrows up for him to continue, when he did not she nodded, “Shall we then?”

 

Fenris followed them from the camp, acutely aware of the stares they attracted. Fenris realized he was not troubled by the strangers knowing of him but was more troubled by the thought that they might believe they knew him better than he knew himself. How would  _ they _ bridge the gap between the version of him on the page and the red-laced murderer they saw before them? Fenris certainly wasn’t sure. Perhaps that was why they stared. Trying to see where he had changed, when everything had gone wrong.

 

No, not “wrong”. Fenris ran a hand through his hair nervously. He wasn’t “wrong”. Nothing bad had happened. It was fine. He had thought it more from their perspective anyways. It was fine. He would not think that again.

 

Cherrelle led them the long way around the camp instead of going through its center, which Fenris found he prefered. On the other side of camp there were more horses in a makeshift paddock. Supply wagons stood nearby with their owners packing or unpacking them and a couple of guards stood by the entrance eyeing them as they passed. Even though Fenris and Hawke had spent days travelling here from the snowy peaks, he was glad to see this uncomfortable place behind him. 

 

They stopped some distance from the camp, Cherrelle looking back to watch for Elias, “Where is that boy? He was so eager to leave and now he has us waiting.”

 

Hawke pulled his cloak closer as a wind pressed against them, “Elias said the camp had been a nightmare.”

 

Cherrelle sighed, “Poor kid seems better at making enemies than friends. No one is particularly fond of wardens these days, not since they got tangled up with…”

 

The warrior trailed off as she looked pointedly at Fenris. He shifted slightly under the gaze before she smiled sweetly again.

 

Hawke cleared his throat and nodded toward the camp at Elias trotting down the path towards them with a second pack strapped haphazardly on his back. 

The elf was grinning ear to ear, even as he panted for breath when he met them. “Sorry guys, but I promise it’s going to be worth it.”

 

Hawke narrowed his eyes, “ _ What’s _ going to be worth it?”

 

Elias shook his head, “I’ll tell you further ahead, out of eyesight of the camp, ok? Ok. Let’s.”

 

He strode off in front of them, Cherrelle shrugging at Hawke before following. They travelled in near-silence. The calls of birds were more common in the lower peaks, songs whistled from cliff faces and the sparse trees as the sun lowered. Cherrelle picked up casual conversation with both Elias and Hawke in turn. The talk would wind around and trail away before they focused on the trail ahead of them again. Fenris found the pace comfortable, the snow was thinner here, slushed in places and frozen in others. 

 

Fenris wondered if travelling with the others was better or worse than travelling alone with Hawke. He didn’t feel as inclined to speak, but during their trek this morning they hadn't spoken. Not properly, not since last night. Fenris let his mind wander back, avoiding the guilt and sharp edges of regret that lined the memory of the previous night. Hawke’s lips. They had felt familiar, as if Fenris had found a part of himself he had forgotten, effortless. It had been so long since he had been touched, longer since he had been touched with something other than violent need or begrudging order. 

 

It was terrifying, the more Fenris thought on it. How badly he wanted Hawke to continue, to take charge and mold Fenris into the shape he wanted. How frightened he had felt at first, when he thought Hawke would touch him and pursue as Master’s guests had in the past, how it had opened a dark abyss of grief in him when he thought it. He remembered how disrobing in front of Varric back at Skyhold felt, how surprised he was then. He couldn’t dishonor his Master by thinking back on his orders with disdain or disgust. But he did. His skin crawled. 

 

He wanted to ask Hawke about the Fenris from the past, the one written in the book who had bared teeth at unwanted touch and had rebuffed advances. The Fenris who chose to lie with Hawke of his own volition. Who was he? How could Fenris have ever reached that, when he was nothing but a slave, a lost stolen thing behind enemy lines?

 

His head ached. It was too much. Too confusing, too heavy and he still had no idea which Fenris he wanted to be, if he even had a choice. No matter what he chose, he knew living a life split between the two would never be peaceful or complete. Never be what either his Master or Hawke would want. He wished there was a third option. One that brought him peace and comfort.

 

They walked for hours through the winding mountain paths on the lower peaks, Orlais within sight beyond the cliffs they travelled on. The sun was low and Fenris was exhausted from the travel and from the lack of sleep the night before. He was thankful when they stopped at a traveller’s camp, an empty plateau where a fire pit stood with fresh charcoal from the night before. Cherrelle said that travellers going up and down the mountain to the Inquisition camp regularly stayed here.

 

Fenris unloaded his pack, set up his tent on the far end of the camp, not wanting to disturb Hawke needlessly with his presence. Hawke needed to be with other people right now. The others set up their tents as Cherrelle unloaded the fresh food she had brought and started cooking. Fenris was eager to eat something besides the dry jerky and watered-down broth he and Hawke had been eating in the mountains. 

 

Elias dropped his second bag next to the fire, the contents made a familiar glass-clattering sound that made Fenris’ ears twitch.

 

“Alright,” Elias said with a grin, “This is way heavier than I expected, so we gotta drink as much as we can tonight.”

 

“What?” Cherrelle turned as Elias opened the bag and several bottles of wine teetered and fell onto the snow. “Where did you-?”

 

“A friend of mine owed me a favor,” Elias smirked, grabbing one of the bottles and working at it’s cork with an opener from his pocket. “The Inquisition won’t miss a dozen bottles, trust me.”

 

“Your friend had a dozen bottles of wine at that camp?” Hawke looked dubious, “What friend was this?”

 

“Hey,” Elias said as he opened the bottle and took a swig for himself. “Don’t worry about where he got it. I dealt with enough at that camp, they owe me more than a dozen bottles, let me tell you.”

 

Cherrelle chuckled and took a bottle in hand as Elias passed her the opener, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just tell me this is  _ stolen _ wine.”

 

“Well,  _ I  _ didn’t steal it.” Elias nodded towards Fenris, gesturing to the wine at his feet. “Come on Fenris, take one.”

 

Fenris looked to Hawke, who was frowning at Elias and the bottles, Fenris swore he could see him holding back a smile. “Your ‘friend’ owned you a ‘favor’ huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Elias stared openly at Hawke, a slight blush spreading on his ears before he smirked and tossed a second corkscrew at him, “Wouldn’t  _ you _ like to know!”

 

Hawke caught the corkscrew and made a face at Elias before chuckling, “Alright, you know what? Good work, I think we can all afford to unwind a bit.”

 

The wine was terrible, its flavor was thick and harsh at first, but its aftertaste was a watery sweetness that made Fenris gag. He inspected the handwritten labels to find it was a Ferelden wine that had only been bottled a year before. Fenris had not had wine this terrible since, well, he supposed Kirkwall? The quality was not unfamiliar, but he had drank far superior wine as a slave back in Tevinter. No one else seemed to notice, except Cherrelle who looked disappointed after her first sip but hid it under good humor.

 

“Your friend was unable to steal the better wine?” Fenris joked as they sat around the fire with their bottles.

 

“Holy Maker, bless us, for Fenris is making jokes!” Elias laughed openly, his face already red from the drink. The comment itched in Fenris’ mind, as if something similar had been said to him before a long time ago. “You found a sense of humor in the mountains, hey?”

 

Hawke nearly finished his own bottle already, staring square into the flames of the fire as Cherrelle checked on the meat roasting upon it. 

 

“I found many things in the mountains.” Fenris nodded, watching Hawke for a reaction. “But there were no bottles of wine in the snow, unfortunately.”

 

“Oooh, so what  _ did  _ you find?” Elias coaxed, “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you what I found in that camp.”

 

Elias chuckled to himself as Fenris looked at Hawke across the fire. Hawke was shifting uncomfortably, frowning at the ground before his eyes flicked up and caught Fenris’. His expression dropped, “We should talk about something else.”

 

“Oh!” Elias yelled, spilling wine on the snow. “What! You can’t leave me on that note, what did you guys-”

 

“Elias,” Cherrelle was holding back a laugh herself, “Let them have their privacy. And I  _ don’t _ want to know anything more about what you were up to at camp.”

 

Elias opened his mouth to argue but closed it in a whine at the stern look on Cherrelle’s face. Fenris smiled to himself, he liked this. The too-sweet wine and the warmth of the fire and the easy comradery. He only remembered flashes and pieces of his time with his friends in Kirkwall, but from what he remembered, this felt very familiar.

 

“Nothing  _ happened _ .” Hawke cut into the conversation. He inspected his bottle, seeing how low it was already and sighed, “We found each other and we came to you guys, that’s it.”

 

Fenris cleared his throat, “We had a lot of time to talk.”

 

Hawke looked up at Fenris from across the fire, eyes searching.

 

Fenris took a careful drink and nodded to himself, “I finished reading the Tale of the Champion, and we had a lot to discuss.”

 

Elias and Cherrelle looked from Fenris to Hawke and back with wide eyes. Hawke scratched at his beard anxiously.

 

“Do you remember stuff?” Elias whispered, or attempted to, his voice was far too loud for a real whisper. “Like Kirkwall and everything?”

 

Fenris tilted his head, looked at Hawke, who was watching him intently. “Not in its entirety.”

 

Elias made a small whine as he dragged another bottle towards him, “That must be so strange. Me and Cherrelle talked about that kinda stuff on the road, about not remembering things. Scary stuff.” He got the bottle open and took a generous swig, “Weirder to read a book about yourself, I bet.”

 

Fenris nodded, “It is.”

 

“You guys talked about it?” Hawke looked to Cherrelle who shrugged.

 

“Fenris can I tell you something?” Elias said, once again, a little too loudly. “I’m going to tell you something. I really looked up to you, I mean, back in Kirkwall. I was pretty young but I heard all about you and I just thought….”

 

He trailed off as Fenris watched him, he seemed lost suddenly, the swirl of wine taking him away from his train of thought.

 

“Yeah,” Hawke said, picking up the thread Elias had fumbled. “Fenris was a bit of a legend in the Alienage right?”

 

Elias nodded feverently, “We all wanted to be as strong as Fenris, to move beyond what everyone saw us as.”

 

He went quiet again. Fenris stared at the fire, trying to imagine the reality of his statement. Young elves seeing him as a role model, not for his obedience or his high standing with his Master. But for the  _ opposite _ . For defying his Master, for escaping slavery and fighting his way to freedom. He tried to imagine. He tried to remember that part of him, hidden somewhere deep within, just out of reach and yet present and silent as the wind that tousled his hair. 

 

“I am not familiar with that part of myself.” Fenris admitted before he drained the last of his bottle. His head swam comfortably, warm and soft. 

 

“You’ll get there.” Elias nodded, “Right, Hawke?”

 

Hawke looked up from the fire, Fenris perked his ears, hoping to hear Hawke agree. Wanting to be assured that this part of him was not lost forever. 

 

“Yeah.” Hawke said lamely. Cherrelle looked up at him with pinched eyebrows, Hawke caught sight of her before fumbling again, “It’s going to be fine. I’m sure. I just-”

 

Hawke stood abruptly, “I’m going to get some sleep, I barely got a wink in last night.”

 

“Hawke-” Fenris started, unsure what he was going to say next, as Hawke turned and left for his tent. He crawled in right away, without looking back. 

 

“I’m going to head in as well.” Cherrelle popped her empty bottle next to the others and stood.

 

“But… the wine!” Elias exclaimed, “I wanted everyone to get drunk with me, I wanted us all to hang out!”

 

Cherrelle smiled apologetically, “I’m not as young as you Elias, maybe Fenris will stay a bit longer with you?”

 

She bid goodnight and retired to her own tent. Fenris stared at the fire, feeling dejected at Hawke’s sudden absence, again. Hawke always left when things did not go how he wanted, when the water got too hot. Fenris wondered if it was  _ him _ . His Master had been displeased with him often since leaving Tevinter, had he become unreasonable and unruly? Even to the man who once loved him and thought he should be free?

 

“You’re going to stay, right Fenris?” Elias interrupted.

 

Fenris looked up from his thoughts, he saw no reason to leave, “If you wish.”

 

Elias smiled and raised his bottle, “Alright! Let’s hash some stuff out, have some talk. I did this with the wardens sometimes, just drank and talked about whatever was on our minds until we fell asleep from the drink.”

 

“What is on your mind?” Fenris tried, already feeling overwhelmed.

 

“Ugh.” Elias groaned. “The Approach. It’s so hot. And there are darkspawn, and I killed a guy last time I was there. It sucks.”

 

Fenris wondered what response this warranted, but chose to stay silent and sip from his wine bottle.

 

“What are  _ you _ thinking about?” Elias said after a pause.

 

Fenris looked up at the stars over them, “I…” What  _ was _ he thinking? He was thinking about so many things, more than he could reasonably discuss. More than he wanted to tell to an elf. But Elias felt safer than Hawke somehow, even if he had unsavory opinions about the Venatori and such. 

 

“I miss my Master.” Fenris said, the weight of it rolling from his shoulders as he released the words.

 

Elias choked on his wine, “What?! I mean-” He coughed and moved a bit closer to Fenris. “Really?”

 

Fenris gazed back at the flames, dying down a bit now. “It was easier. I knew what he expected of me.”

 

Without thought, Fenris’ gaze swept towards Hawke’s tent and lingered. Elias noticed, matching Fenris’ eyeline for a moment before looking back with eyes wide.

 

“Easier… than Hawke?” Elias was speaking quieter now. 

 

Fenris bristled a bit, unsure if he wanted to open up to this young elf. But the truth of it felt good. Unraveling the tangle that had amassed within himself over the past weeks. “I do not understand what Hawke wants.”

 

Elias’ ears drooped, “He loves you.”

 

Fenris looked away, ears pinned, “I know. But I… I am not the same man. And even so, when I tried-”

 

Fenris stopped himself, stilled with held breath, hoping that Elias could not deduce what he had intended to say.

 

“Tried?” Elias straightened. “ Tried what- you mean… Oh. Oh! Did- What did you do?”

 

Fenris cursed under his breath in Tevene, “Nevermind.”

 

“No no, what happened?” Elias nudged himself closer, wine long forgotten. “Please tell me? I’ve known Hawke for so long and he’s always only talked about you and-” He gasped softly, “Oh no, is this because… Oh, Fenris, listen, I don’t like him like that anymore. I’m over it. I don’t care I just-”

 

Fenris wanted to turn and shake the elf ‘til he shut up, before Hawke could hear him babbling on like this. He felt like a kitchen slave gossiping between courses, tittering over things that were no ones business. And yet the allure of releasing his thoughts and having them heard was too much.

 

“We kissed.” He said. “He kissed me, but he stopped so I tried and... “

 

Fenris bowed his head, blinking hard, why did his chest hurt so bad?

 

“Oh.” Elias breathed. “ _ Oh _ . Fenris, I think…”

 

“He does not want me.” Fenris said to the ground beneath him. “Not like this.”

 

“Fenris I don’t think…” Elias was struggling, Fenris could hear sincerity and reason battle with the drunkenness that had overtaken him. “I don’t think it’s like that, I think it’s more complicated than that.”

 

Fenris nodded at his feet, “Yes.”

 

“No, no, listen.” Elias swayed where he sat, and Fenris was suddenly worried about the young elf getting sick on his cloak. “He probably thinks he did something wrong. Cause you…”

 

Fenris stood, he wasn’t willing to hear an argument against him again. About how he was too damaged and marked to be allowed affection, to be permitted touch, to explore the complicated and dangerous emotions that threatened him. He was too much, he had been a slave, he  _ was still _ a slave and that meant Hawke would not want him.

 

“Fenris listen…” Elias slurred, attempting to stand and follow him as Fenris walked towards his tent. “Hawke  _ loves _ you. He does. So much.”

 

“Enough.” Fenris looked back at the drunk elf, ears pinned as he squared his shoulders, “I do not need to hear this again.”

 

Fenris crawled into his tent and laid on his blanket. He did not want to think on this anymore. The wine pounded a headache within his skull. His chest hurt. He fumbled in the dark for his pack, reaching his hands in to find the book within and the silver lock he had hidden at the bottom of the bag. He pulled them both close, fingers trailing pages and etched design. He felt like a dead weight, one that was sink to the bottom of the ocean as a storm raged on. A casualty of the chaos that had overtaken his life. 

 

He closed his eyes and willed sleep to take him. The heaviness of it came quickly for him, welcoming him as he relaxed and settled. Hawke entered his mind, smiling. His hands, his lips, the strength in his arms as he pulled back on his bowstring. Fenris fell asleep comforted by the flying of red arrows against a sky made for dreams.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I hope the length of this chapter has been worth the wait! We are getting into the home stretch here, only a handful of chapters left to go until its all over. Please take note that this chapter has some intense jealousy, paranoia, and boundaries being ignored. No one is well.
> 
> As always thank you for your continued love and support! Don't forget you can find me on tumblr at glowyelfboyfriend.tumblr.com!

Fenris woke late in the morning, curled around the Tale of the Champion, the lock from his collar held tight in his hand. He could hear footsteps outside, the rustle of tents being taken down as a fire crackled nearby. He had not awoken with the dawn as was his habit, judging by the slight pain in his head he supposed it was the drink that had lulled him.

 

He rubbed his face, thinking over the previous night, Hawke’s silences, and then the wine. He remembered Elias sloshed and emploring him-  _ oh _ . Fenris groaned quietly. He had told the elf about him and Hawke kissing. Foolish. What if Hawke had heard? What if Elias had told him about the conversation as Fenris slept? He never should have said anything.

 

Fenris sat up and quickly packed his things, slipped his lock into one of the pockets on his belt, and crawled out. The sun was bright and warm in Fenris’ eyes. Blinking past its glare, he saw Cherrelle taking down Elias’ tent, Hawke sitting near the fire as the elf laid curled near it looking ill. 

 

“Morning.” Hawke called. Elias groaned slightly.

 

Fenris nodded, eyes darting between the two of them wondering the likelihood of them speaking about the previous night. How close were they anyhow?

 

“How is your head, elf?” Fenris tried to sound friendly but the words came out all wrong. 

 

Elias squinted at him, ears pinning, pouting like some punished elven child. 

 

Hawke, on the other hand, chuckled at his expense, “He’s had worse before, trust me, but he’ll be fine.”

 

Hawke ruffled Elias’ hair where he laid on the ground. A spike of heat pierced Fenris between the eyes, stinging even as Hawke pulled away from the elf. As if that was normal between them. Perhaps it was. 

 

“I see.” Fenris said through gritted teeth, turning away to tear down his tent so they could get moving. There was no answer behind him, no words exchanged, but his neck prickled with the awareness that they could have  _ continued  _ to touch behind him. Elias  _ was _ a free elf after all, wasn’t that what Hawke wanted?

 

“You, uh, you sleep alright Fenris?” Hawke’s voice rose to Fenris’ pinned ears. He did not turn, instead bristled at Hawke’s concerned tone. Anger rolled through him like a wave, low but growing, lapping against him as he threw the sheets of canvas to the ground.

 

“I have no complaints.” Fenris answered, letting the anger growing inside him to hiss out on his breath. The sun was so warm where it touched his skin. He pulled apart the last of the tent, rolled it messily against the ground before shoving the parts into his bag. He wanted Hawke to try and answer that. To chase Fenris’ anger so that it might remind him of the teeth Fenris could bare.

 

But Hawke said nothing. Instead Cherrelle made a low thoughtful sound, “Good to hear.” She said, Fenris gritted his teeth at the patronizing tone, “We have a lot of ground to cover, so we won’t be slowing down for anyone who drank too much last night.”

 

Fenris hefted his pack and turned to eye Elias. The elf had sat up and was openly frowning at Cherrelle. Hawke poured out what was left of his tea on the dwindling fire and moved towards his own gear. Fenris wondered if Elias had truly known any hardship, for an elf he seemed quite entitled. Any slave with his attitude would have been beat raw back in Tevinter. 

 

They packed their things quickly and were heading down the mountain path before too long. Fenris’ ire of Elias waning as Hawke held back from him to walk alongside Fenris instead. Hawke’s presence, his strung bow bouncing from where it hung on his back, the gentle cast of his brown eyes in the sun…. It calmed Fenris. The flooding anger from the morning ebbed, and Fenris felt  _ right _ again.

 

“Did you have fun with Elias last night?” Hawke asked, a small smile on his face. It was the first time since the kiss that he seemed comfortable. Less burdened, less disapproving of Fenris’ presence. 

 

However, he was still talking about Elias.

 

“That would not be my choice of word.” Fenris said truthfully, he noticed Elias’ ear twitch from pace ahead, listening. “I do not find him as  _ companionable _ as you do.”

 

Hawke turned and stared with narrowed eyes, as if he had no idea what Fenris was getting at and was trying to puzzle it out. The anger had faded, but Fenris could not help but feel jealous still. Perhaps it wasn’t the elf’s fault but Hawke’s. His Master had taken to other slaves and took what pleasure he desired from them, but at least his Master never claimed the love and adoration that Hawke had.

 

“What do you mean?” Hawke asked quietly.

 

Fenris held his chin high, the sunlight played on his lashes and once again the sun felt so  _ warm _ he could barely think past it for a moment. “He said you’ve known each other for years. I would be a fool to think you did not  _ wander _ in that time.”

 

Hawke was silent, Elias’ ears pinned where he walked ahead of them before he turned to squint at Fenris, “What?”

 

“Do not interrupt.” Fenris’ voice waned at the end of the sentence, twisted in anger and confusion at his own malice. His cloak felt too heavy, too close to him, the bottoms of his feet were hot despite the thin ice and slush under them.

 

“Fenris-” Hawke warned. A warning. An order? What  _ did _ Hawke want to be to Fenris?

 

“Alright.” Cherrelle cut Hawke off, stopping and turning sharply on the spot. Her eyes were daggers at Fenris, pinning him to the spot, her squared shoulders and readied stance throwing off any thoughts he had. “This is what we are going to do. Fenris can walk  _ ahead _ of us today, take point. I’ll pull up the rear with Elias. I understand you are more than capable of keeping an eye out for danger, right Fenris?”

 

Fenris wanted to argue, to bare his sharpened teeth at the woman and sneer at her orders. But underneath his anger, his twisted up jealousy, he knew he was out of line. He shouldn’t be speaking to Hawke in this way, he wasn’t  _ supposed _ to be like this. He was someone that others had looked up to before, someone who deserved freedom and respect, and he was wrong. He wrestled down the impulses that tossed under his calm facade and nodded, charging past Elias and Cherrelle to march down the mountain himself.

 

The anger struggled within him as he tried to clear his mind, tried to regain control of himself. Everything was fine, was it not? There was nothing to fight here. He shouldered the arguments that rose up and focused on the path, one step at a time.

 

But the air thickened as they descended from the peaks, the sun warm against Fenris’ skin as the snow beneath his feet gave way to stone and dirt. Fenris was too warm, fumbling for the clasp of his cloak so he could shake it from his body. Behind his chest plate the heat rose, it swirled about in his limbs and all the way to his finger tips. 

 

Fenris stopped. The cloak fell upon the ground, but the heat did not relent. It rose and prickled and sweltered within him. His vision swam as he reached for his forehead to draw his hair back from the lyrium markings there. Searing pain met him, boring into his skull from the markings as he gasped out in pain.

 

The red within opened a giant eye inside Fenris and took everything in with its sharp gaze. Fenris stripped bare before it as he felt its great maw open slowly in a dangerous smile. 

 

_ There you are _ . 

 

Fenris’ skin was burning, his bones hot as iron upon a fire, he could not struggle.  _ It has been so long since we were together… _

 

No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening! Fenris did not want this. He wanted the red creature torn from his body and away from his mind. He had been thinking clearly for the first time in what felt like decades, despite the malice and jealousy he had fallen to earlier. He had pieced so much together, remembered so many things and learned so much. He needed to have his own mind, he needed his mind to be his own!

 

_ Foolish slave _ . The teeth raked against Fenris’ brain, sending shockwaves through his body.  _ Your mind belongs to your Master _ . 

 

Fenris felt as if his skull would burst from the pain, from the roving red beast within it. He curled against the earth beneath him, unsure of when he had fallen, and gritted his teeth as he tried to will it into submission. He had it under control before, he had reached a harmony with it in the past, he had to do it again. He had no other choice. It would tear him apart if he did not.

 

“Fenris?” The sound of Hawke’s boots before he kneeled, hands poised on the ground ready to support Fenris if he fell.  _ He would put his hands upon your Master’s property again _ . 

 

“Get away!” Fenris shouted, pushing out at Hawke before he could stumble back. He didn’t know how much he trusted Hawke, or what he wanted with the man, but he could not end it here like this. He couldn’t allow the red beast to sink its teeth into Hawke.

 

“Fenris talk to me, what’s-” Hawke’s voice cut off as the red inside of Fenris lit up. He felt it surge through his markings, rushing and expanding as if a dam had burst. The heat was all over, filling his brands and claiming him again. 

 

Fenris could see the red light reflecting off the slush and ice beneath him, he snapped his gaze up to see Hawke had retreated a few paces with eyes wide. Fear caught in the man’s throat, fear shining in the eyes of Elias and Cherrelle further up on the path. A pain hung in Fenris’ stomach, self disgust and guilt rolling at the looks upon their faces. They knew, they had always known that this was what Fenris was. But it was their first time seeing it.

 

_ You are not what they think you are _ . The red pooled around Fenris’ memories of Kirkwall, the stories written in the book, the forlorn and nostalgic tones of Hawke’s voice.  _ You can kill them all. You can kill them and return to your place, beside your master. Only he would accept what you are. _

 

“Maker... Fenris, please.” Hawke pleaded, stepping forward with hands outstretched. Fenris realized his hands were tight at his scalp, his fists full of his own hair. “Stay with me. Stay with  _ us _ . You’ve done so well lately, you don’t need to give into it.”

 

_ Foolish. _ The red licked.  _ He could never replace your master, he is too weak, he would not take you even if you forced yourself upon him. He is occupied with another. He is nothing.  _

 

Fenris groaned as he met Hawke’s eyes. It wasn’t true. The red was struggling, despite the vile it dripped hot against Fenris’ mind. It ran as hot lava but could not cover the history Fenris had learned, could not destroy and drown it into itself. But it was trying. Maker it was trying. All Fenris needed to do was get a handle on it, find the familiar territory they had shared within before. He swallowed hard, trembling as he remembered that that amicable place had been a mutual terror and hatred for Hawke before he had even learned his name.

 

“Hawke-” The red burned at the sound of Elias’ voice. “We have a problem.”

 

“Yes I  _ know _ .” Hawke growled and the heat subsided, even though Fenris could barely lift himself from the ground under the onslaught from within. “Would you let me just try and-”

 

“No Hawke it’s-” Elias yelled, silenced by a sudden roar of voices. 

 

Fenris looked up to see half a dozen men dropping from the mountain crag behind them. They wore no colors, weapons drawn and war cries echoing down the cliffs. Bandits. Fenris and Hawke scrambled backwards as arrows hit the ground in front of them. The men spread around them, Fenris scanning quickly to try and gain the lay of the land.

 

Cherrelle already had her sword and shield in hand, bashing back a bandit from Elias who was twisting his fingers in front of him as magic curled around them. Hawke pulled back on his bow and Fenris met eyes with a ragged, bearded bandit and realized: battle, blood, nothing satisfied the red like it.

 

The red growled happily, tingling and lighting in response. It was  _ hungry _ . It pried at Fenris’ edges, itching in his markings, pushing to try and form - oh. Fenris  _ had _ a sword. He did not need the lyrium.

 

He unsheathed the sword from his back. The weight in his hands familiar, welcoming, like an old friend. Fenris grinned as he pushed forward, the red lyrium strengthening him as he cleaved clean through the first bandit. Blood sprayed hot against Fenris’ leathers. He turned on his heel, slashing toward another. The man’s sword clashed with his, reverberating before Fenris twisted and cut across the man’s calves.

 

The man fell with a cry, Fenris stepped over him and plunged his sword into him. The sword caught slightly as he pulled it out, not as sharp has he had hoped then, and turned to see his next mark. The red was breathing within him, lighting his markings in time with his own breath. The other bandits eyed him with fear, the red reflecting in their own eyes. 

 

A red-tailed arrow sunk into one of their throats. The bandit grabbing towards it and gurgling before hitting the ground. Cherrelle pulled up close, shoving against another with her shield and then barring her sword down to crack skull. A green glow appeared around them, bubbling, and Fenris’ hair stood on end as he recognized the barrier magic. 

 

Fenris found his rhythm then. Moving, one step at a time, as his blade cut through one bandit and then another. They were no match for him. For them. Cherrelle threw a woman off her shield and Fenris slashed down where he expected her to fall, cutting through armor and spraying blood. An array of arrows rained down on two that had held back, one of them raising his shield as the other took the arrows to his shoulders and neck. They turned to retreat, only to met a wall of flames that scorched the first layer of their skin.

 

Fenris cried out, a loud roar that rocked through his body in a shout. The remaining bandits stopped, quivering on the spot as they stared at him and Fenris suddenly felt  _ at home _ . He had not made a proper war cry since Kirkwall, had he? He had not fought alongside such a strong and coordinated team since then. He had fought alongside clumsy gladiators that reveled in the glory of a kill, knew nothing of teamwork. But them, they knew, and it was like…

 

The last of the bandits fell, arrows and magic against their skin as Cherrelle pulled her sword from the last one. Fenris was panting, his limbs sore from the weeks he had spent without training or practice. It had been even longer since he had wielded a sword and he could feel the burn in his arms and shoulders. Alongside the heat of the lyrium which had calmed, a buzzing remained, its piercing gaze remained, but the voice had quietened.

 

“Damn bandits!” Cherrelle spat at the ground and kicked at one of the bodies before she turned, her face dripping in sweat. “The captain warned me about them, they’ve been attacking the caravans and travellers. Good riddance, trash.”

 

Hawke shouldered his bow and met Fenris’ eyes. Fenris stilled, a wave of shame filling him at his red lyrium-fueled outburst, at the concern and fear that shone in Hawke’s eyes. He slowly sheathed his sword as he tried to think of an explanation, scrambled for the words that would reassurance Hawke that Fenris was not what the red within him wanted to be. Even if he could not always fight it.

 

“You good Fenris?” Hawke asked. Entirely casual. The question rung in Fenris’ ears and he somehow knew this was a typical thing for Hawke to ask after a fight.

 

Fenris nodded and shook the blood from his hands, looked at them to see where the red lyrium had crystallized over his markings during the battle. He scrubbed at them until they fell away like crusted salt.

 

“You  _ sure _ ?” Elias squinted at Fenris.

 

“He said he’s good, move on.” Hawke said sternly. Fenris’ ears twitched at the familiarity, again. 

 

They split up to loot whatever goods they could from the bodies. Cherrelle found a few important letters and correspondences meant for the Inquisition, Elias pocketed a couple lyrium potions and Hawke emptied the quivers to add to his own. Fenris watched and mulled over the odd, comforting feeling that had budded inside of him. He was reminded of Kirkwall. Of being there, memories that felt like they belonged to someone else, like a dream. Fighting alongside Aveline and Anders, their travels and missions routine, endless and unfurling as Fenris thought on it. Sometimes the companions changed but, this was not at all unlike it. 

 

“Hawke?” Fenris called quietly as Hawke neared him. 

 

“Yes?” Hawke’s brown eyes were wide, expectant and somehow so  _ kind _ . Fenris did not want to leave his side. Did not want to have to stop following him, no matter what happened. 

 

_ Your Master will kill him. _ The red curled within Fenris’ mind, hissing softly.  _ This will all end, not that it matters. None of this matters. How could you believe a human like him would ever love an elf like you? Besides, you still wish to return to your Master. _

 

“Nevermind.” Fenris’ voice was tight. The lyrium voice made him want to fight harder, for his old self, for Hawke. But he could not deny that he still wanted his Master. He could not have both.

 

He could not have both.

 

“Well if everyone is alright and uh,” Cherrelle met Fenris’ eyes before quickly turning away. “...Ready to continue we should get moving, we need to be in the Dales by nightfall.”

 

-

 

They reached the Dales before twilight fell, descending from the last mountainous slopes into a plains that seemed to reach forever. The ground was dry, the sky open above them with only a couple towering shadows cast from massive rock formations. Dry dirt and scratchy brush at Fenris’ bare feet as the distant scent of smoke met him. It was not the lush rolling hills and forests he had traveled through in Ferelden, yet in the distance he could see impossibly high tree canopies like green clouds along cliffs. 

 

“There is still some civil unrest in this area.” Cherrelle explained, guiding the way as she gave the distant smoke a weary look. “The Inquisition settled the worst of it, but there are still groups of men who would give us trouble.”

 

“Any Venatori in the area at all?” Elias’ voice was small, his gaze slowly taking in the vast expanses before them. 

 

“Not anymore.” Cherrelle answered. She stopped to climb one of the lingering cliffs, hands and feet spry as if she had done this a thousand times. She shielded the low sun from her eyes and peered about before settling her eyes in one direction. “We’ll head this way, looks like no one’s camping in the grove.”

 

She slid down from the stone and took up the path. Fenris fell behind the others, keeping a distance between himself and them as they followed a narrow path between two tall rises of stone. The red lyrium had been sated, but had not fully subsided. It posed in Fenris’ mind like that of a resting wolf, licking its teeth and watching with sharp eyes. He knew it would strike again, whether he wanted it or not, he had no choice in this matter. Even now he could feel the heat rising and pulsing through his markings, a constant tide of anger and violence he could not temper. 

 

Fenris knew the red lyrium had changed him in subtler ways, in ways he was sure he would still discover. He knew it was in his best interest to keep the beast inside tamed with blood while he was with Hawke, his outbursts and missteps here were taken worse than they were with his Master.

 

_ But he wasn’t happy with you either, was he? You disappoint him.  _

 

Fenris shook his head. He didn’t even know if he  _ wanted _ his Master anymore. This freedom, traveling without restrictive collars and chains, his own tent and place at the fire-

 

_ You are a slave. Never forget you are a slave. You disrespect your Master with these thoughts, with this misplaced pride. Your Master would have your back flayed for such thoughts. _

 

Fenris winced, the red stinging behind his eyes. Sharpening in his markings. 

 

_ You are nothing more than a slave. A disobedient, ungrateful creature that will betray his Master for a man who will barely look at him. For a man who would toss you to the wolves if his Inquisition asked it of him. You are his prisoner, not his lover, not the man he thought you were. You will never be that again- _

 

Fenris punched stone. Red surrounded his fist before the impact as if to protect him before shattering against the rock. Red shards flew everywhere, sticking to Fenris’ tunic and catching in the groves of his armor. His hand ached, the bones rattled, but it wasn’t as bad as he had intended. He wanted to break something, to break the skin and let the blood drip from the markings and silence the creature inside of him.

 

He looked up quickly to see if the others had seen. Elias looked back, ears perked to the sound, but he was too far ahead and looked away when he met Fenris’ eyes. He had not seen. Fenris straightened, brushed off the red shards and shook out his hand. The red had relented, for now, and he folded that information away for later. 

 

Fenris’ mind was blissfully quiet as he followed the others as the trail opened to a large grove under the green canopies. Fenris stared up at them, realizing now that they were not built from a collection of trees but only a few massive ones that twisted higher than any he had seen before. The grove itself was dark, cold in the shade the trees created, low hanging mist rolling elegantly above damp grass.

 

He joined the others, ears drooping at the cool breeze, knowing the red lyrium would be lulled by it. Elias made a small gasp and pointed to a few small white creatures on the other end of the grove. Hallas, staring at them with large black eyes before pinning their ears and leaping away into the mist without a sound. A wave of peace rolled through Fenris, he had always wanted to see halla, he had supposed he had before, but it was different seeing them here in the wild.

 

“What is this place?” Elias asked, voice full of reverence as they slowly tread into the grove. Ruined pillars and brick lifted from the damp mossy floor, in the distance a large statue of a wolf watched them through the fog. 

 

Cherrelle smiled sadly in Elias’ direction, “You haven’t visited the Exalted Plains before? I thought you travelled through here from the Approach?”

 

Understanding crossed Elias’ face as he shook his head, “No we… we went a different direction…”

 

Fenris took a look around again, remembering the name of the place enough to know that  _ this _ was not the plains itself. They had passed by the plains proper, hadn’t they, where the fires were burning. Fenris found himself wondering if elvhen lands simply existed in a constant state of destruction. The thought disturbed him.

 

“Before we make camp we need to make sure nothing else is living in here.” Cherrelle turned to the group. “There shouldn’t be demons or anything like that, but wolves have been known to hide out in these groves.”

 

Hawke cleared his throat, “You mean besides the big fella up there?” he nodded towards the statue.

 

Elias chuckled and elbowed Hawke. Fenris looked away, feeling their interaction like a blow. He had caused enough trouble with his jealousy, and he couldn’t justify it if he wasn’t willing to  _ try _ and get Hawke back, could he?

 

“I’m being serious, Hawke.” Cherrelle shook her head but didn’t wipe the smile from her face. It faded quickly as Fenris caught her eye. “Hawke, you and Fenris can go check the eastern side, Elias with me.”

 

They parted ways and Fenris was met with immediate relief at being away from Cherrelle and Elias. Their lingering stares were weighted upon him, so much so that the air seemed quieter as he and Hawke moved away from them. As if Fenris could hear their thoughts, their silent jeers and judgements wafting through the air. Needless to say he was happy to see the elf away from Hawke, regardless of whether or not he was justified in his jealousy.

 

It was just easier to not have to worry, to not have to think about any of it.

 

A dozen paces into the grove Hawke looked over his shoulder at the others, then met Fenris’ eyes, “Are you feeling better?”

 

“Yes.” Fenris said automatically. Hawke frowned softly at his response and Fenris realized what he was actually referring to. “Or rather, I am better than I was earlier. The warmth of this place has changed it. It…”

 

He didn’t want to say, did not want to frighten or burden Hawke with anything more. The man was already carrying so much from his presence and Fenris did not want to hurt him anymore than he already had.

 

But he decided it was best to try and be honest, “It speaks again. The red lyrium. I will do my best to temper it and keep it under control.”

 

Hawke’s expression cracked, a wary sadness sweeping over where Fenris had expected to see fear or disappointment. It tore at Fenris’ heart, made it swell with an unfamiliar pain. Guilt, but not normal guilt he would feel when he let his Master down. It was heavier somehow, dark and toxic within him, bleak enough he felt the red lyrium shudder at its presence. He had lost something. He had lost something and Hawke could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words. He was incomplete, damaged, and Hawke looked upon him as a man surveying another’s wounds.

 

“I… I am sorry.” The words shook out from Fenris, voice tight as the red within him slithered up from his stomach. It tried to take his throat, choking, hissing at the grief that had suddenly flooded within him. 

 

“Fenris…” Hawke’s voice was small, a tiny smile flickering upon the man’s world-weary face even as he pressed them farther into the grove. “You don’t need to apologize. You did not choose to have the red lyrium, even if you believe you did, I don’t know. You don’t need to apologize for what others have done to you.”

 

_ Your Master gave you a  _ **_gift_ ** _. The liar only wants you to renounce him so that he may steal you, use you to his own means. Are you actually so ungrateful that you would speak of your Master’s gift, his work, with such disdain? You are lucky he did not leave you to die upon that table. He will undo you if your loyalty wanes. Your Master will have you undone. _

 

Fenris’ fists tightened until the gauntlets bent into his joints, jaw locked as he followed Hawke through the mists. The red was hot, close to the surface despite the chill in the air and the damp dew beneath his feet. It wasn’t enough. But he tried to think of something to say, some way to express the gratitude he felt at Hawke’s words. Fenris wanted to express  _ anything _ he could to Hawke that was not tainted by the red, anything that would show the growing devotion he felt towards him.

 

_ He will never love you again. You are a shadow. A ghost of what he remembers. You are created better by your Master and soon you will kill this creature and return to where you truly belong. _

 

It wasn’t true, Fenris knew that somehow it was not true. He could not believe it, not after everything he had learned. And yet Fenris could not see himself overcoming the red lyrium or propelling himself to the lofted position Hawke put his memories of him. He could never do it, could he?

 

Hawke turned to look at Fenris, eyes widening at what he saw when their eyes met. “Fenris, talk to me-”

 

A snap of a branch and they both looked to the source of the sound. The brush was thicker here, the mist risen higher around them at the stone wall they were backed into. Fenris’ ears twitched to the sounds, the red retreating in favor of survival. Footsteps. Too many, too soft to be men making an ambush. Elves perhaps? A low growl from nearby ruins and an image of flashing white teeth burst in Fenris’ mind.

 

The first wolf leap from the underbrush and sunk its teeth into Hawke’s arm. Fenris unsheathed his sword as two more appeared, slinking low in the fog with eyes square on him. Hawke shook his arm, kicking out as the wolf greedily latched tighter, fumbling for his dagger at his waist.

 

Another wolf lunged towards Fenris before he could help Hawke, its mouth met steel and yelped as it jumped back. Blood splattered on Fenris’ sword. The red swole in his markings, hungry, begging to be released. If he gave in he could rip the wolf from Hawke’s forearm, he could- 

 

Fenris growled and grabbed for the wolf with his gauntleted hand. Wet fur met his skin and he gritted his teeth against the temptation to push  _ inside _ of it and pull its bones from its body. Hawke stepped towards the stone cliff they were backed against, and Fenris followed, together slamming the wolf’s body against rock. It whined and let go, tumbling to the ground as Fenris turned to slash the air between them and one of the advancing creatures.

 

A piercing whine and Fenris looked back to see Hawke’s dagger sticking out from the wolf’s thick furred neck. The wolf stumbled on the ground again, snapping and whining as the other wolves paused in their advance, heeding the warning. 

 

Fenris stomped his foot forward and the wolves all jumped back, snarling and barring their teeth. An arrow caught in the side of one of the growling wolves and it instantly tossed itself in pain and surprise, turning and fleeing. The others growled more, snapping teeth and dripping saliva as they backed away. Fenris advanced another step and reveled in the fear and submission in the beasts as they turned tail and fled the grove.

 

Fenris let his sword fall as he watched, the wolves rushing to a narrow trail that led away from the grove. They would be safe tonight. A jolt of fear struck Fenris as he remembered the teeth in Hawke’s arm. He turned and Hawke was wincing as he pulled the laces on his bracers lose.

 

“Are you alright?” Fenris asked, closing the distance between them. Hawke peeled the bracer away from his forearm, the exposed skin was unbroken but dark bruises were already blossoming.

 

“I’ve had worse.” Hawke said as he turned his arm around in his sight before rubbing it with his free hand. He looked down at the wolf lying at his side, eyes fading as a couple of last twitches shook its body. Hawke must have managed to stab it in its spine. Fenris could not help but feel impressed, and a little ashamed that his protection was… not really needed.

 

And yet it felt right, that Fenris should only need to help watch Hawke’s back and work with him. It was the battle on the road all over again, the familiarity like hearing a song from your past and remembering the words only as they came. Fenris wanted this. He  _ wanted _ to be with Hawke. He wanted to continue, to find each step after the next, to fall in line with a past he could only somewhat remember.

 

“Hawke, I owe you an apology.” Fenris sheathed his sword, Hawke shouldered his bow and looked at him with raised eyebrows.

 

“I told you that you don’t need to.” Hawke frowned.

 

“No, about the way I have been acting towards you and the- Elias.” Fenris stared down at the dead wolf, its empty eyes easier to meet than Hawke’s gaze. “I only wish for things to be… normal, between us.”

 

There was a pause as Hawke laced up his bracer, stepping around the wolf to be closer to Fenris. 

 

“I appreciate it.” Hawke did not sound as serious as Fenris expected, no reprimand even hinted in his voice. “I know it’s the red lyrium, not you. I can talk to Elias about it, if you would rather. But he knew what he was getting into so-”

 

“Hawke?” Fenris looked up, found Hawke’s eyes. “I want to be with you.”

 

Hawke faltered, his body swayed on a step he did not take, “What?”

 

“I know I said before I did not know what I wanted but-” Fenris stepped forward, mere inches separating them. He wanted to touch Hawke, wanted him to pull him into a kiss again, to solidify everything Fenris had been struggling with. For Hawke to show that he wanted him too, to erase the insecurity Fenris felt and lock his place with him. “I know I want to be with you, I cannot imagine being apart from you, I want…”

 

His fingers reached out to Hawke’s cloak, then without thought under it to Hawke’s arms as he shoved him backwards. Hawke stumbled over the wolf’s corpse and gasped in pain as his back hit the cliff face. Fenris couldn’t stop himself, he felt hot all over, lava pouring through his veins.

 

“Fenris stop-” Hawke protested, red reflecting in his eyes. He pushed back against Fenris and even that, just that meager touch, was enough to spur Fenris forward and pin Hawke to the wall. “Get off me!”

 

Fenris’ heart was hammering in his chest. He wanted Hawke. He did not want anyone to ever touch him, to even see him or know of him again.  _ You could claim him like this, you can make it so no one will hold him ever again. _

 

Fenris let go and fell back, shaking.

 

_ Coward _ .

 

Hawke sunk against the stone, breath coming in small gasps as he stared at Fenris. Fenris could not look back, could handle Hawke looking at him like  _ that _ .

 

“Fenris…” He breathed, lost and weary. Fenris cowered, his body trembling, ready for the fallout. “I love you so  _ much _ …”

 

Fenris looked up, shocked, having expected Hawke to reject him again. 

 

Hawke looked broken as he sunk lower, until he was nearly sitting in the damp earth. “I’m never going to stop loving you, no matter what but- Fenris I know you can’t do this. You aren’t ready. Please don’t do this because you think you  _ need to _ .”

 

Fenris opened his mouth to apologize, to argue, to say something that would stop Hawke from spilling this truth on the floor. But nothing came out. The red lyrium had nearly pushed him into hurting Hawke, and he could barely control himself, he did not deserve the kind words Hawke was saying. And he could not bear to hear the truth as bare as he laid it.

 

Hawke watched him as he lowered himself to the ground too. Two once-lovers huddled on blood stained earth steps away from each other. 

 

“I don’t want this.” Fenris managed, his voice torn. “I want to be free of this monster inside of me.”

 

Hawke smiled sadly, ran a hand over his face and through his beard before standing. “I know.” He said, “I’m going to fix it for you. We’ll find a way. Everything else can wait Fenris.”

 

He made a staggered step towards the center of the grove, Fenris looked up warily.

 

“All of this can wait.” Hawke nodded to himself. “You have enough time, if you want to be free you will. But us, we will have to wait and see if we can do that again.”

 

“Please.” Fenris pleaded, his chest aching. 

 

Hawke took another step away, “No, please, Fenris, don’t do this to me. We can’t love each other until you are better. We can’t.”

 

Fenris stared at the earth beneath him as he heard Hawke’s footsteps fall away into the mist. He wondered if he truly would have killed Hawke, or perhaps hurt him in some other way. The thought was sickening but unsurprising. He wished he was more than a witness to the actions he made, the actions the red pulled from him like a marionette. 

 

He wished he loved Hawke the way he was supposed to.

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one this time, but a good one I hope! We are about 4-5 chapters away from the end I think if all goes according to plan. As always thank you all for reading and all of your comments and kudos!

Hawke slept uneasily that night. He laid awake for what felt like hours, his mind racing over everything that had happened that day following trails of thought into the days and weeks before. He had not seen the red lyrium in full force within Fenris since those first few days after their battle and his capture. But then it was obvious, a wild thing wearing Fenris like a second skin. Now it was quieter, subtle before the teeth snapped out like the wolf he had fought off earlier.

 

It troubled him. He had taken for granted how much the cold of the Frostbacks had held the red lyrium’s influence at bay. So much so that he had seen the Fenris he remembered slowly coming back. Since they left the peaks, it had slowly grown and then arrived all at once.

 

He didn’t know how to help Fenris. Short of forcing Danarius to reverse the process  _ somehow _ , he couldn’t imagine a situation where Fenris would recover. Maybe if all else failed they could just move to the Frostback peaks, build a little stone hovel and live out their days in the freezing blizzards? The idea seemed bleak.

 

The thoughts did not leave Hawke even after he fell asleep, his dreams uneasy but undefined he woke feeling sore and unrested. He could just see the light of morning between the seams of his canvas tent as he shoved his blanket away from his sweating body. It was so warm down here in the plains, even in the cool grove. Had he become this accustomed to the cold? He was sweating, his shirt soaked as he sat up and-

 

Hawke froze. Fenris was lying next to him, red lyrium glowing faintly as he slept. When had Fenris come into his tent? The thought filled Hawke with fear.  _ Why _ had he come into his tent? What purpose did he have for it? Was it really to simply curl up and sleep inches away from Hawke? 

 

Hawke shivered as a chill rolled over his sweat-soaked body. Fenris could have  _ killed him _ as he slept. It was something he had always considered before falling asleep and had always dismissed. He had trusted his own instincts, his own hyper-awareness to protect himself and he had always trusted that Fenris would never try. But now he wasn’t so sure.

 

He carefully pulled the blankets away from himself, towards the opposite side of the tent from where Fenris was sleeping peacefully. His heart was thumping hard against his chest as he slowly moved from the bedroll, reaching for his cloak. He had dreamed and longed for a time when he would wake to Fenris nestled beside him, but not like this. Not now.

 

He crawled from his tent slowly at first, then quickly as he cleared the threshold. He stood and wrapped his cloak around himself, hoping no one saw the trepidation in his eyes or his less-than-graceful exit. How would he explain this to Cherrelle or Elias? Worse yet, what would he say when Fenris emerged from the empty tent? What would he need to expect from him, after everything that had happened yesterday?

 

“Morning Hawke,” Elias called from the fire as Hawke flinched. He was too loud, too casual, but then again he had no idea. “I’m cooking up some toast and sausage, do you want any?”

 

Hawke peered around and found that Cherrelle was missing from the camp, and could he not see her in the light fog and greenery that surrounded them. “Quiet, quiet please. Uh, is Cherrelle around?”

 

Elias blinked at Hawke, seemingly put off by his manner. “She went to climb a rock, you know, that scouting thing she does. How many sausages do you want?”

 

Hawke grumbled, he needed to speak to her  _ now _ , and preferably before she could come back and see Fenris emerge from his tent. Elias was sitting facing the tents, having been waiting for Hawke to wake, but Hawke needed him to do literally anything else.

 

“Can you go get her?” He tried and failed to sound casual.

 

Elias made a face, “I’m cooking, why don’t you go find her?”

 

“I... I don’t want you alone with Fenris.” Hawke frowned hard at the fire, wondering if Fenris was stirring awake now. He was not a heavy sleeper, never had been, and noise was the fastest way to bolt him from sleep.

 

“Whatever.” Elias shrugged a shoulder, tossing his cookware into the coals and standing up. “If you wanted to be alone with him you could have just-”

 

Elias went quiet, eyes wide and Hawke turned to see Fenris stepping from his tent. His eyes were narrowed, the red lyrium in his skin pulsed brighter before receding again. Elias turned back to Hawke, raising an eyebrow, “Oh.  _ Alright _ . I guess I will leave you two alone-”

 

“Wait-” Hawke grabbed at Elias’ arm, quickly dropping it when he remembered that Fenris was watching. “Which way did she go?”

 

Elias frowned, looked away from Hawke as Fenris stepped up towards the campfire and stopped some distance away.  _ It's too warm _ , Hawke thought,  _ he doesn’t want to stoke the red lyrium more than necessary _ . 

 

“She went east…” Elias stared at Hawke dubiously, catching onto the fact that something wasn’t right. 

 

Hawke nodded and turned to Fenris, trying to wipe his expression of any fear or distrust he felt. “Fenris, do you want to start taking down your tent? Elias is cooking breakfast, I need to speak to Cherrelle about something before we leave.”

 

Fenris’ red eyes were searching him, calculating in the way Hawke had seen him in difficult conversations or towards unsavory characters. “I can accompany you.”

 

“No.” Hawke said it too fast and he could almost feel the heat radiating off Fenris at being given an order. Hawke had to toe the line between direction and order, between the free Fenris fighting to get out and the slave warrior that bent to command. “No, that’s ok, I would rather we get things done quickly so we can move out.”

 

Fenris seemed to soften a bit at this explanation, “Say it and it is done.” 

 

Hawke shivered as Fenris turned and walked away from him. He turned and caught Elias staring at him for some sort of direction, hands up slightly in his confusion. Hawke shook his head and headed off to the east side of the grove.

 

His anxiety did not ease as he left the camp. He found himself looking over his shoulder twice before he rounded the ruined pillars they had camped behind, trying to see what Fenris was doing. He hoped he had not left Elias in a precarious situation but he knew he was capable of taking care of himself. He just needed to speak to Cherrelle and quickly-

 

“Hawke!” Hawke stopped at the sound of her voice calling out from above him. He looked up to see her standing nonchalantly at the top of the ravine cliffs. It seemed that rock formations were as easy for her to climb as trees were for Hawke. “You looking for me?”

 

“Yeah actually…” Hawke squinted up at her through the rising sunlight as she skipped down the rock like a mountain goat. “We need to change our plan, we can’t continue on this route.”

 

Cherrelle leapt down the last few yards, landing expertly with little more than a small gasp of air. “What do you mean?”

 

“Fenris is… not himself. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to go ahead as planned.” Hawke spoke quietly, as if Fenris would be able to hear them all the way over here.

 

Cherrelle frowned, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. “We have our orders Hawke. You spoke to the captain at the last camp, we can’t ignore Inquisition orders.”

 

Hawke’s hands tightened into fists, “Cherrelle, listen, we cannot take Fenris anywhere  _ near _ a Venatori camp. And we definitely cannot scout it or get into any conflict with them with  _ Fenris _ with us. We can’t.”

 

The orders had been dancing around in Hawke’s head the past two days, since he had received them at the camp. While Fenris went with the others, he had reported to the captain’s tent expecting to only have to report on Fenris’ process or on their mission status. He had not expected the unpleasant, malicious ex-templar to hand him new ones. Much less ones about a hold of Venatori camping out directly on their route. Hawke hoped that Fenris’ improved condition would continue, that perhaps they could scout the camp from afar and leave it at that. But-

 

“No, Hawke,” Cherrelle shook her head, her jaw setting. “We cannot ignore an order from the Inquisition, not me, not you and certainly not Fenris. He is a prisoner of the Inquisition, and although you know I am sympathetic towards his situation it does not change the fact that we need to follow this order.”

 

“I’m not saying this to protect him, I’m trying to protect  _ us _ .” Frustration rose in Hawke’s voice, growling out in a hissing whisper. “The odds of him defecting and turning on us are too high, we can’t risk it.”

 

Cherrelle put her hands on her hips and frowned, her eyes searching. It was easy to see her military roots in her stare, the way it chipped away at Hawke looking for deception. 

 

“You think Fenris will go back to the Venatori?” She asked with a low voice.

 

“I think he might get conflicted or confused.” Hawke clarified, tip toeing the line between defending Fenris and laying out what he knew was the truth. “He still doesn’t know where he belongs and the red lyrium is making it worse. The chances that he will follow their orders or fall to their side are too high.”

 

Cherrelle’s stern expression did not soften, and Hawke began to panic. “Hawke,” She said slowly, voice hard with authority. “If Fenris cannot be trusted to come in contact with Venatori then how do you expect he will respond to seeing his old master? Our orders are to capture Danarius and return him to Skyhold, what do you think the chances are that he will become ‘confused’ then?”

 

Hawke’s face fell, anxiety rising up from his stomach into his throat as he struggled to come up with something,  _ anything _ to convince Cherrelle that Fenris wouldn’t turn against them. It felt inevitable at this point, sooner or later Fenris would reach a breaking point and Hawke could only imagine it ending in blood.

 

He had hoped, prayed against all odds that Fenris would be better by now. And he was, but it was by degrees, and he already knew the fate of the first people who had helped him into freedom. Would Hawke and the others be the next Fog Warriors? Years from now, would Fenris wince to discuss the day he realized his worth and his desire for freedom, having found it only once he killed those who liberated him?

 

“Hawke,” Cherrelle interrupted Hawke’s spiraling thoughts with a sigh. “I cannot ignore orders, but, you are the one the Inquisition trusted to handle Fenris. If you decide to go against orders then that is on you. Elias and I will scout the camp, you and Fenris will push on ahead…”

 

“Cherrelle listen,” Hawke shook his head, scrambling for find a way to make this right. He did not want to make things harder for Cherrelle or Elias on account of him, he had already caused so much trouble for so many people. “When we reach the Approach I can go after Danarius on my own with Fenris. I would rather if it were only my own life at risk, I can’t ask you or Elias to risk yourselves.”

 

Cherrelle’s eyebrows knitted high on her forehead, “We both agreed to this mission, he knows the risks, as do I.”

 

Hawke laughed, a hollow dark thing that rumbled from his chest. “No, no you really don’t.”

 

Cherrelle sighed again, shaking her head at the overcast sky above them. “Maker, you are stubborn. Let’s just discuss that later, for now we will make camp out of the way from the Venatori’s last position and see what scouting we can do without alerting Fenris.”

 

Hawke released his breath, victory for now. “Thank you, Cherrelle. I will do everything I can.”

 

The scout looked unconvinced as she left to return to their camp. Hawke lingered, wondering what the hell he was going to do. Fenris was not fine, not even close, and Hawke had already promised that he would let Fenris make his own choice as to whether to stay with him or to return to Danarius. It was a foolish promise to make, in retrospect, but it had won so much trust between them. A trust that was wearing thin on Hawke’s end now that Fenris was becoming increasingly aggressive and possessive.

 

Hawke had been warned by Varric about the red lyrium effects, the ones that might surface over time. Possessiveness, jealousy, anger and the constant paranoia. Fenris had shown them all, even if he showed promise in his attempts to overcome the madness. 

 

But this mission that the Inquisition gave, the promise of freedom for Fenris in exchange for his old master, it was too much too soon. The mission was a fool’s errand, and Hawke hated knowing that he was leading them all into what would very likely be their death.

 

None of this was new for Hawke, he supposed. The ‘Champion’ had led his sister to her death in the deep roads, failed to save Fenris from Danarius and had helped led Kirkwall itself into ruin. What was another failure and more death?

 

A darkness hung over Hawke as he turned to return to the camp.

 

\-------

 

The rest of the morning was normal, except for the uncomfortable silence that held everyone in the party. Cherrelle did not look at Fenris and would not say a word as she packed and led the way out of the grove, newly burdened with the challenges and dangers Hawke had brought her. Elias avoided Fenris, smartly, and gravitated towards Cherrelle as they left the safety of the green tree canopies. 

 

Fenris was watching Hawke, always watching with those rich red eyes. His expression was somber, longing in a way that made Hawke think of the year they spent pretending they weren’t desperately in love. It hurt to see in Fenris’ eyes, knowing everything else that lay hidden beneath, the monster Danarius had tainted him with.

 

Hawke wanted to have the strength to push ahead, to ignore Fenris’ silent calls and keep the distance that would keep both of them safe. But he wasn’t strong. Hawke hung around the back of the trail, alongside Fenris, be damned the consequences.

 

The twisted ravines let out to rolling hills of golden and dry plains, large grey rock formations jutting out across the land like the tombstones of giants. In the distance, Hawke could see the trailing smoke of fires, abandoned and torn flags in the dirt, tracks and folds of grass from the dalish caravans he knew traveled through the old elvhen lands. 

 

Fenris did not speak and neither did Hawke, walking in amicable silence for the entirety of the morning. Hawke wondered if he should bring up Fenris slipping into his tent, but did not know what he would say. What reason did he have to bar Fenris from entering his tent that wouldn’t shame or hurt? Perhaps it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

 

By midday, they crossed the fields and found themselves back among rocky crags and ravines. It was a lesser-traveled path to the west, avoiding the main routes to Val Royeaux and Halamshiral. The Venatori had been known to use it, as well as the red templars, but the camp would not be close for several hours.

 

But it still made Hawke nervous and he found himself looking over to Fenris more than he had all morning. As if a quick glance would tell him how well Fenris was holding up against the red lyrium inside of him. But it did nothing except coax Fenris into staring straight at him as they walked. 

 

“You are very quiet today,” Fenris observed.

 

“I’m a quiet guy.” Hawke tried with a shrug. He felt weird trying to keep Fenris out of the loop, treating him like a wild mabari. The Fenris he had known would never stand for it, and he knew there was a part of this Fenris that would feel the same way. 

 

“That is not true.” Fenris tilted his head as he walked, “I remember you were once very talkative. But I understand that more recent events may have changed that.”

 

Hawke swallowed. It was true, and Fenris remembered and saw what Hawke pretended was not there. “Well, I guess we have both changed a lot.”

 

Fenris’ eyes skirted away as something in his face twitched, “I wish it were not so.”

 

Hawke’s heart ached at the simple wish, at how desperately he wished for the same thing. “Yeah,” He said softly.

 

“I wish things had not changed between us, Hawke.” Fenris continued, his voice bold and his eyes lingering. “What memories I have recovered I... “ Fenris’ expression shifted as if he were struggling to find the words, or the words were blocked from his tongue. “I… recall fondly.”

 

Hawke turned to look at Fenris, who was staring down at the ground with a flush of embarrassment across his face. No, not embarrassment- shame. Hawke imagined how hard Fenris had to fight against the lyrium, the slave loyalty and conditioning that kept him in check. He wanted to reach out and touch him, to wrap him into a hug and kiss his face until he knew he was safe and loved. But he couldn’t, not with the lyrium as it was, only yesterday Fenris had shoved Hawke against stone with a violent glare in his eyes. Hawke couldn’t.

 

Instead he nodded and smiled sadly, “As do I, Fenris.”

 

Fenris looked up from his feet, eyes scanning Hawke’s face, “I owe you an apology. I should not have entered your tent without invitation.”

 

Hawke stumbled, eyes darting up to see Cherrelle and Elias give each other a look several paces ahead. They were listening, why wouldn’t they with how Hawke and Fenris had been lately? Hawke wondered if he cared, and decided he didn’t. 

 

“Alright, apology accepted.” Hawke responded in a low voice, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t do that in the future, not without asking first.”

 

Fenris was no longer looking at Hawke, instead his red eyes trailed the ravine face and the pebbles beneath his feet. “I remember being close. We once shared a tent.”

 

Hawke’s breath caught in his throat, “Is that why you did it?”

 

Fenris did not answer. A shiver ran through Hawke.

 

They were silent again, the four travelers walking single file through the tight twisting rocky cliffs and ravines. Hawke wondered how close or far they were from where the Venatori camp was sighted, and where Cherrelle was planning on taking them to camp through the night.

 

Another hour of walking passed before Fenris spoke again, “How would it have been different, Hawke?”

 

Hawke blinked back to where Fenris was trailing behind him, “What?”

 

“If I had stayed in Kirkwall.” Fenris’ eyes locked on Hawke’s, the depths behind the red painfully familiar. “How would it be?”

 

Hawke took a slow breath, it was something that he had thought of  _ daily _ since Fenris had been taken. He had spent more time imagining and dreaming of Fenris’ presence, his sword and his words in that time than he had spent living his actual life. 

 

“I don’t know, but I can guess a few things,” Hawke answered. “Kirkwall still would have gone to shit, you would have been angry that I sided with the mages but… you would have stayed I think. And when the Chantry came for me… I like to think you would have left with me. I don’t know what else you would have chosen to do.”

 

Fenris nodded slowly, blinking hard as the lyrium glowed in a wave down his body and dimmed again. Hawke stepped back, wary, wondering what the red’s voice was screaming in Fenris’ mind. 

 

“I like to think that as well,” Fenris admitted, blinking away to stare at the others with narrowed suspicious eyes. “I would like to travel alone with you again.”

 

Hawke followed Fenris’ gaze and a small fear sparked in his stomach, “We will again, one day.”

 

“We could now.” Fenris’ voice had changed, like a turning of the wind, the soft strength replaced with something harsh and sharp. “We did in the mountains.”

 

Hawke put himself between Fenris and the others again, his nerves alight. “Not now.” His voice was quiet, short. He could almost feel Fenris bristle and heat at the denial but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t allow Fenris to force them to break away by injury or worse. Even if Hawke desperately wanted to pair off to keep the others out of danger, it was too soon, it was too dangerous for Fenris to talk like this.

 

“We don’t need them.” Fenris spat, vicious. 

 

Hawke made note where his dagger was, prepared himself to draw it if he needed to. “I enjoy traveling with friends, Fenris. Maybe after this is all over we can travel alone.”

 

“They do not appreciate you, they take advantage and do not understand you.” Fenris continued, his pace picking up to fall right behind Hawke. Hawke wondered if this was how the red lyrium sounded in Fenris’ head. “You are better off with me. Only us.”

 

“Fenris-” Hawke warned, teeth gritted, watching as Cherrelle and Elias slowed to a stop up ahead. Did they hear? Would they decide enough was enough with Fenris? “We need them. I would be hurt if anything happened to-”

 

Hawke snapped his mouth closed as Elias and Cherrelle turned and skipped back down the path towards him. He put his arm out, blocking the space in the path he could see Fenris might try to slip through to attack them. Or where they might do the same to Fenris. He was caught between them, the situation on a dangerous edge.

 

“Hawke we need to turn around.” Cherrelle gave Hawke a wide-eyed look, trying to convey an urgency that did not match her tone.    

 

“He’s fine.” Hawke said automatically before he noticed how pale Elias looked, and a flag fluttering on some stone in the distance…

 

“We gotta go.” Elias urged. 

 

“What?” Hawke squinted past him at the rippling fabric, white stained with red, a black symbol twisted under the splatter of blood. A black snake. Venatori.

 

Hawke reached back to grab Fenris arm’s, hoping to push him around before he could see, but Fenris was stone-still under Hawke’s grip. His eyes were wide as they took in the flag in the distance, breath let out softly as the red in his markings lit up. Hawke cried out and released his grip on Fenris’s arm, the heat searing. 

 

“Fenris look at me!” Hawke shouted, but Fenris’ ears did not even twitch at the sound. He was transfixed, a thousand miles away, the same blank-terror expression Hawke had seen back at the Hanged Man. At the battlefield in the snow outside the Venatori stronghold. 

 

The red was piercing, blown out and bright and roving under Fenris’ eyes as his eyes swam. Hawke wanted to shake him, to bring him back to him, to try and appeal to what was still Fenris under the red lyrium. But before he could try, Fenris vanished.

 

Fenris ripped from existence, nothing left but a haze of red that swirled in the air where he had stood before vanishing into the wind.

 

Hawke felt as if he had been punched in the stomach, as if his heart had been torn from his chest, he gagged on his terror as he stared at the spot Fenris had been a second ago.

 

He barely registered the terrified exclamations behind him, everything inside of him freezing and numbing as his mind reeled in this reality where Fenris had just abandoned him. 

 

“He just-!!” Cherrelle struggled, eyes wide in horror at the spot Fenris had vanished from.

 

“He phased away, but I thought he couldn’t do it like that…” Elias was at a loss for words as well. 

 

“This is bad.” Hawke croaked as he turned, scanning the tight ravine as if Fenris would simply reappear there as if nothing had happened. Fenris had been obviously avoiding using the red lyrium, opting to use his sword and not phasing or pushing himself with his markings. To have him use it to disappear into the fade as he just had, right after seeing the flag. “This is really bad.”

 

“No shit!” Elias threw up his hands. “What is he thinking? Is he throwing us to the wolves?”

 

“You said he would do this!” Cherrelle pointed at Hawke, fury raising bursting into her voice. “You knew he would, he’s leaving to join them!”

 

“I said he  _ might, _ ” Hawke shouted back, although he didn’t know how much that mattered at this point. “We need to stop him, we need to get him back!”

 

Elias let out a strangled laugh, “I’m not going into a Venatori camp after him! Even if we can fight off Venatori on our own there’s no way we could beat Fenris.”

 

“He won’t fight us he’s just-” Hawke choked on his words, he was dizzy, as if the world was breaking apart under his feet. “We can’t give up on him, I can’t lose him again I can’t. I’ll go alone if you won’t”

 

“Hawke!” Elias groaned, stomping a foot as his hands spasmed in front of his face in pure frustration. “Can you  _ stop _ being like that for just a second so we can-”

 

Elias stopped as Cherrelle shot a hand up, her eyes wide, darting up the ravine cliffs.

 

Hawke followed her gaze to find that they were surrounded. Huffing steel-faced gladiators stared down at them from above, a single mage knelt at the edge with a shit-eating grin plain across his face.

 

“You southerners lost?”

  
  
  



	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I'm coming at you quick now that we are in the final chapters! There are probably only a small handful of chapters left, so don't worry, it'll all be over soon. As always thank you for reading, for commenting and everything else, you guys are wonderful ♥
> 
> Quick heads up -- This chapter dives into some heavy violence and some body horror, however its similar in level to earlier chapters, take care reading!

Everything was red.

 

The space between the fade and reality was dark, the sun hanging above Fenris burned a deep ruby across everything. He saw Hawke’s expression before he ran forward through stone and crags as his heart ached. 

 

Hawke would never understand. Even though he had promised Fenris that he would support any decision he made, Fenris knew he would never be happy with Fenris returning to his Master. But Fenris was no longer the man Hawke loved and he did not know how to get himself back. He did not know how to betray his Master.

 

Stone and rock passed through Fenris like rolling waves in an ocean. His feet found footholds within them, lifting himself up towards where he felt the vibrations of lyrium, the thudding beat of a song he did not quite know but recognized. The red inside of him frenzied for it, propelling him forward like an excited and blood-thirsty hound. 

 

The thought of returning, of seeing his Master in the flesh, brought a peace to Fenris’ heart. Surely he would know how to fix everything that had fallen apart, he would know how to resolve the confusion and the fractured devotion inside of Fenris.

 

It would be alright. He would be ok.

 

He climbed the suggestions of stone with his hands and feet until they led to a flat plateau above the maze of rock. The Venatori camp was erected here, tall posts with fluttering and stained flags of hissing snakes. The tents were beyond hulking figures, red eyes glowing in the fade-place, looking to him as if they could see straight through his phasing. 

 

Fenris pushed past them and ran into the camp. He looked about, hoping the energy and magic of his Master would resonate within the red darkness. But there was nothing, nothing beyond the shadowed figures of mages he did not know.

 

At a loss, but back where he belonged, Fenris phased back.

 

Reality shredded against him, aching and tingling in his burning red markings. There was a shout of surprise, a gasp and a clattering of gathered staves and blades. Fenris turned, taking in the decorated robed Venatori and their slave archers and warriors. They had all stumbled away from where he appeared, shocked but ready to attack.

 

“Isn’t that-?” One of the mages lifted the steel mask of his armor, squinting at Fenris.

 

“Danarius’ elf?” Another said, the shock and surprise did not ease in his stance.

 

Fenris wanted to say something, to ask where his Master was or tell them he meant them no harm. But words were lost to him. He had no words here. He was a slave, conscripted to the Venatori’s goals, he had no voice.

 

A shiver ran through him, seeing the fear and suspicion in the eyes of the mages, knowing that he had been lost. Had they thought him dead? Or worse? And where was his Master? 

 

Fenris knelt on one knee quickly, bowing his head submissively to show he was here out of his duty as a slave. A few of the men relaxed at this but still seemed unsure of what to do.

 

“Why is he here?” One of them mumbled to another.

 

“Didn’t Danarius lose him?” A mage asked and Fenris bent his head lower to the ground until his forehead hovered above the earth. 

 

“Someone get Quintus!” The order was barked, scuffling feet scurried off to comply.

 

Quintus? The Venatori rogue that had taken Fenris to Denerim to carry out the assassination was here? Fenris swallowed thickly, remembering how cruel the man had been to him, the piercing calculating eyes and the complete lack of fear he had regarding the red lyrium.

 

Fenris wanted to sit up, to see what was happening around him and knew he could not. He had no collar and these men would not trust him without it. His Master’s lock was heavy in one of his belt pockets and he considered whether they would accept it as proof of his loyalty. The magical collar being lost was not his fault or his choice, they must understand that he was a prisoner… right?

 

“Stand, slave,” Fenris’ ears twitched at the order and he followed, unfolding himself from the ground and standing tall. The red whirled about inside of him, reveling in the loyalty and order, but heating at a man other than his Master taking charge. 

 

The mage who had given the order was staring at him sternly, jaw set as his eyes flicked up and down Fenris’ common armor and his burning markings. “Why are you here, elf?”

 

Fenris took in a slow breath, blinking at the strange discomfort in his chest, “I wish to return to my Master.”

 

The Tevene was rough on his tongue, felt as if it belonged to a lost time. He had tried to use it to stop Hawke from interrogating him, but Hawke had learned Tevene just to help find Fenris. Would Hawke still try to follow him? Or would he finally admit defeat and go home?

 

Fenris hadn’t said goodbye.

 

“Your Master isn’t here,” The mage’s face twitched into a smile that made Fenris feel cold. “He is holed up in a dirty cave in the Western Approach, playing with his experiments. His-” The man looked Fenris up and down, “- _ other _ experiments.”

 

The red growled inside of Fenris, “I must return to him.”

 

The mage raised his eyebrows at the assertion, crossing his arms as the others watching turned to murmur to each other. A sharp spike formed in Fenris’ stomach, he had spoken out of turn, hadn’t he? That was why he had been flogged when he first arrived in Ferelden. Surely they wouldn’t, not with him standing without collar as he was. But his statement was  _ true _ , they had no final say on him, not when his Master was within their ranks.

 

“Did the Inquisition teach you those manners?” The mage snarled, a wicked smile stretching as others chuckled.

 

“He was always like this,” Another masked man asserted, “Danarius said it was the lyrium, but our  _ other _ red warriors don’t have the mouth this one does.”

 

_ Other _ ? What others? Fenris was the only one the Venatori had with red lyrium laced through his body, more refined and controlled than the red templars they hated so much. What were they talking about?

 

“Fenris,” Fenris flinched at the commanding voice, turning to see Quintus standing by the center of the camp with a lazy, predatory smile across his face. “Back from the dead I see. What a good loyal pet, hmm? Crawling back from beyond the fade looking for his Master.”

 

His voice made Fenris’ skin crawl. He remembered the dark manor they had met in, how Quintus had sized him up and spoken of him in a manner he thought his Master would never allow. The leering eyes and jeering lewd comments from him and the other mages, the hulking beast of a gladiator they had brought in after him, stripping Fenris of his clothes and forcing him to the ground-

 

“Come, pet,” Quintus said, with a sigh as if Fenris was boring him, gesturing as he stepped away from the center circle of the camp.

 

Shaking, his hands sweating and red crystallizing in his palms, Fenris turned to follow with his head low.  _ This is how things are _ . The red lyrium purred, even though Fenris could feel it heat and boil with indignation.  _ You deserved all he put upon you, you are a good loyal slave are you not? Any punishment he sees fit for your transgressions you will take willingly. _

 

It was not true. Fenris would accept nothing but delivery to his Master, he would no longer accept punishment from anyone below his Master.

 

Quintus strode to the far end of the camp, a determined casualty to his stride. A few elves were around, mending carts and washing pots, and as soon as they saw Quintus their ears pinned and they scurried off. Fenris envied them, able to skirt away from unwanted attention. No, that wasn’t quite true, was it? If any of these men ordered their presence, their punishments or their ‘affections’ they would have no choice but to comply, would they?

 

Something hurt inside of Fenris and he tried to push it down, the red circling it like a curious mountain cat around an injured mouse. Toying and tapping at it without pouncing. 

 

Quintus turned on his heel and stared Fenris straight in the eye, a threatening and challenging gesture that Fenris could not help but meet. 

 

“Where have you been, Fenris?” Quintus quirked his eyebrows, it was clear he was amused by Fenris’ presence here. But Fenris was not eager to be toyed with in this way. “We have all missed you so very much, your dear Master especially!”

 

“Where is he,” Fenris’ voice matched the commanding tone Quintus had given him in the center of camp. 

 

The rogue’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “Answer my question,  _ slave _ . Or have you forgotten what you are while you were away?”

 

Fenris’ fists closed, he wavered on the spot, he wanted to do  _ something _ , anything but obey this man. Where had this defiance come from? From where did it grow?

 

“I was taken prisoner,” Fenris answered, each word forced out. The red laced each word, curling on itself in confusion of what exactly he was angry about. “I was locked in a cell until they trusted me enough to have me accompany them on one of their missions.”

 

Quintus’ amusement melted away, his eyes wide and calculating, “And now you are here, looking for your Master, you say?”

 

“Yes,” What was so hard to understand about that? 

 

“Whose trust did you gain, Fenris?” Quintus pressed, his arms falling loose at his sides. “The knife-eared Inquisitor? His commander?”

 

Fenris hardened. He would not say Hawke’s name. He would not give away Hawke, damn the others if he must but he would not betray Hawke. Not again. He could be a loyal slave to his Master and love Hawke, he  _ could _ .

 

“Yes,” Fenris answered, weakly.

 

“‘Yes?’” Quintus sneered, “Yes to  _ what _ , Fenris? You think I’m a fool? I know you’re not an empty-headed  _ ratus _ , you cannot fool me with non-answers, Fenris. Give me the truth.”

 

Fenris flinched, stepping away as the red hardened and ached in his markings. “What does it matter?” Fenris asked, “I have  _ returned _ and I owe no one explanation or information except my Master. Tell me where he is so I can find him if you will not take me.”

 

Quintus fell silent and a deep fear grew in Fenris. Who was he to demand things from Quintus? Why did he think he could simply say whatever he wanted? And yet he could not imagine any other route, he would not allow Quintus to collar him and drag him farther from his Master again. He needed to be heard, he did not come all this way to  _ not _ find his Master.

 

But Quintus’ eyes were darkening and Fenris feared punishment. 

 

“Fenris, my dear sweet thing,” Quintus smiled, eyes lidded and a chill ran down Fenris’ spine. “What do you think happens to slaves who  _ vanish _ and return weeks later?”

 

Fenris’ ears pinned, he did not know. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled his Master’s lock out and held it out in an open, red-glowing palm. 

 

Quintus smirked at it, as if Fenris was a small child showing him a colored rock. “Fenris, you served in Seheron, you should know this.”

 

Fenris’ mind reeled, he did not know the answer, he tried to remember what it had been like back in Seheron. His mind was a fractured mess of discolored, misplaced memories and sharp vivid truths. He followed the truth. The jungles, the bloody beaches, allies painted to blend with the underbrush kneeling on either side of him in the trees. Bonfires and gentle words, soft touches, and protection. 

 

Who were the  _ fog warriors _ ?

 

Quintus sighed at Fenris’ silence, as if he were especially slow, “In Seheron, elven slaves are stolen by Qunari, all of the time. And their soft minds are bent, converted, and they are sent back to find their old masters. And they kill them in the night, Fenris. In their tents. Or they try.”

 

Fenris stepped back, tense as the red lyrium coiled like a snake ready to strike. “That is not my intention,” Fenris said, voice low.

 

Quintus shrugged, “In times of  _ war _ . We take care of those slaves that have deserted us.”

 

Blade struck Fenris’ forearm as he raised it, red lyrium protruding out to form a ridge of crystal. Fenris’ breath escaped him as he locked eyes with Quintus, both of his daggers out, one lodged in the red of Fenris’ arm. 

 

The red lyrium bellowed within Fenris, a deep expanse resonating in response, and Fenris answered.

 

Fenris’ sword was in his hand, red lyrium grew from his forearms and shoulders, just enough to armor him from the multiple quick strikes Quintus made with his daggers. One hit a shoulder, his upper arm, a slash to his side drew blood and Fenris retaliated. 

 

Sword slashed air as Quintus jumped back, nimble on his feet. The man grinned before whistling for back up. Fenris would be cut down here, put down like rabid mabari. He had no choice. He had no choice.

 

Red lyrium forced him forward, blade raised as the crystal smoldered the pommel to his clenched hands. Fenris stabbed and caught Quintus’ armor, shredding to reveal pale skin. 

 

The red lyrium sparked inside of him and Fenris’ ears twitched to the sound of Tevene spell chants behind him. He slipped into the fade, stepping out of it again to see the ground where he had been standing engulfed in flames. Fenris would need to kill them  _ all _ . The Venatori had turned against him, finally. 

 

Somehow it felt right, somehow Fenris always knew this would happen.

 

Another slash and Fenris caught one of the mages in his blade, tearing through layers of fabric and flesh. Blood gushed from his stomach onto the white of his Venatori robes. The mage collapsed, clutching at the red that poured from him. 

 

Fenris cried out as a blade entered his shoulder. His muscles twitched around the stinging slit as the blade was removed, hot blood pouring down his back as he twisted on the spot. Quintus’ dagger was coated in his blood and Fenris saw red. 

 

The red lyrium called the fade to meet him and Fenris entered, sliding through where Quintus stood, materializing with his arm poised through the man’s chest. Fenris’ arm returned to reality in the thickness of viscera between hardened ribs. The sound of gore was full in Fenris’ ears as Quintus convulsed, impaled on Fenris’ glowing arm. The red caught him, crackling into his body and feeding on him from the inside. 

 

Quintus slid off Fenris’ arm thickly, falling to the ground with a thud. Fenris exhaled, blood dripping down the entirety of his arm as he looked up at the others that surrounded him. A relief eased from him, the red stated on the blood and death, as Fenris savored the sudden  _ safety _ he felt from Quintus lying dead before him.

 

The mages around him stared at Quintus’ body, steel masks darting up to Fenris as they readied their staves and the enslaved archers and warriors took their stances. Fenris counted ten of them total. Too many. But Fenris had no choice. He could either die here or he could tear them apart.

 

Magic filled the air and Fenris slid back into nothingness. He reappeared in a shower of red, his blade sweeping through three at a time. A red haze surrounded him and it wasn’t until the men fell that Fenris saw the great scales of pulsing red lyrium lodged in their bodies, claiming them. His markings ached, the lyrium growing from them and shooting out to catch the men in their flesh. 

 

Fenris needed the lyrium, he was alone with the beast inside of him and he had to survive.

 

An arrow caught Fenris in the thigh, steel lodging in muscle as Fenris gritted his teeth and pushed harder. The fade embraced him as he entered it, the red lyrium inside of him positively aflame as he slipped back out beind the archer and grabbed his neck. The man yelped, the burning hot grip on the back of his neck searing his skin until Fenris could smell cooked flesh. He yanked back and heard the satisfying  _ crack _ before the archer hit the ground.

 

Four down already. How long before they retreated?

 

Fenris stumbled, forgetting the arrow lodged in his thigh and fell. Terror spiked through him as he struggled.  _ I’m dead _ . One of the slave warriors rushed up, white uniform spotted with old blood and raised his blade high in the air. Fenris braced, tried to ready himself for the blow. Blade met solid red lyrium crystal and shattered it. Fenris shuddered at the vibration that wracked his body, looking up to see the jagged broken edge of red lyrium where it had protruded from his back to shield him. 

 

Fenris struggled to his feet, thigh throbbing and bleeding and movement awkward with the heavy crystal jutting from him. He twisted on his feet, ready for another attack from the warrior, to see him staring through his steel facade as red lyrium fused to his hand. It glowed an angry red as it crawled up his arm, corrupting his flesh through his armor as he howled in pain and dropped to the ground.

 

Terror was beating in Fenris’ chest, his heart racing at the horror before him. It had been so long since the red lyrium went unchecked. He forgot how it fed and claimed and corrupted. How Fenris could simply pour it out from his body to grow it in the flesh of others.

 

But there was no time, each intelligent thought dissolving into a flurry of emotions and quivering nerves. Fenris caught sight of the two remaining mages rising their hands as the slave fighters backed away, eyes fixed on their fallen comrade. 

 

Runes lit on the ground around Fenris, glowing a brilliant ice-blue under his feet as his hair stood on end. He pushed off the ground, darting for the unmarked earth but was stopped. Magic held him. Something colder than ice crawled up his bare feet and up through his legs. He was frozen to the spot, everything up to his hips numb in the freezing magic. His breath quickened, knowing that it would take a single strike at his legs to shatter them  _ forever _ .

 

The red lyrium responded instantly. It burned  _ hotter _ , hotter than Fenris thought it could until he cried out in pain at its heat boiling within him. He thought he would burn up or be shattered by the numb cold beneath him, torn in half by two extremes as the last two warriors crept up slowly, timid of his screams.

 

The lyrium grew from Fenris, every inch more painful than the last as it encased his legs in red. It fed off the magic, glowing and burning bright as the magic was absorbed. It ripped through his arms, crawling up his blade and shot into long spikes. The red spears met the two encroaching warriors, stabbing them cleaning through their torsos as they screeched and stumbled. They tried to pull themselves off, the stab not enough to be fatal, but Fenris could  _ feel _ the red branch off inside of them. Like roots inside of their bodies, threading through organ and bone until they gurgled and fell dead.

 

The runes faded and feeling returned to Fenris’ legs. He stumbled, breath ragged as the lyrium retreated back into his body where it could, breaking off where it could not. Fenris’ hands were shaking, his sword too heavy and his injuries too painful. The magic had left him but it had left his body abused, almost as much as the red lyrium did.

The mages, the last two of the entire Venatori force, looked at each other as Fenris struggled and stumbled to the ground.

 

Fenris knew he could kill them, knew he could push himself further, Even if he could not, the red lyrium would, it seemed to refuse to allow its host to die. But he was exhausted, hurt, and a creeping grief was starting to bubble within him. Thick in his throat. Fenris could not help but feel  _ betrayed _ by these men. He had done  _ everything _ for them. Everything they had asked. He had been dragged from his Master’s side. He had killed the Queen. He had bent himself and allowed them to watch him be used, even before the red lyrium and leaving Tevinter.

 

It was because of  _ them _ that the red lyrium was inside of him. His Master had only wanted their approval. And Fenris had given them everything to try and bring honor and glory to Danarius’ name.

 

And they were willing to throw him away as if he was nothing.

 

Fenris found his feet, raised himself on shaking bleeding legs just as one of the mages stepped forward with hand raised. Fenris’ head snapped back, an invisible force tight around his throat raised him up from the ground. His sword fell. His hands reached to fight against choking hands that were not there. The force squeezed as he gagged, gasped for breath. His toes gripped at earth until it fell away, hanging him in the air before the mage as he slowly stepped towards him.

 

Fenris kicked out, threw his wracked body under the iron grip of the spell. The lyrium glowed, burned, expanded but stuttered as Fenris’ last breaths coughed from his tight, closing throat. Black spots danced in his vision as his hands fell away. This was it then. He would die here like this. His body would be left in the dirt for the animals to pick at as the Venatori went on with their lives.

 

He closed his eyes, stars bursting behind them.  _ It wasn’t fair _ . Thought began to fade as colors and images swirled in their absence. Fenris’ mind lingered on Hawke. His sad brown eyes, the red war paint chipping in the cold mountain wind, the way he held his arm close to him in the cold with red token flapping frayed in the breeze.

 

Color returned as Fenris hit the ground. His body screeched at the impact, all of his joints and bones ached as he scrambled upright. His eyes darted about, everything was doubled as he coughed for breath and his lungs shuddered with air. The mage laid dead. Was it the same one? How many had been left? Fenris’ ribs shook as he coughed again, rattling his entire body before he tried to stand.

 

He wavered on his feet, everything  _ hurt _ . The mage at his feet was still dead, bleeding out from a single red-tailed arrow.

 

_ Hawke _ .

 

Light burst inside of Fenris as he looked up, eyes searching for Hawke amongst the bodies and the nearby tents. The last mage had turned, holding a ball of lighting between his two hands as he searched the same horizon for the archer. Fenris had a chance to catch him unaware but lurched on his feet, clumsy with the oozing injuries on his thigh and shoulder.

 

There were sounds of fighting in the distance, Fenris’ ears twitching and perking at swords clashing and magic where he could not see. Was Hawke there? Had Hawke saved him only to get caught by others in the camp?

 

The thought of Hawke fighting them, dodging magic and trying to hack and shoot his way through them sent a sudden fury through Fenris. The Venatori could try and kill him, but he would be damned if they  _ tried _ to hurt Hawke. 

 

Using the anger Fenris called up the red lyrium, sated and spent in his markings, and thrust himself forward to the mage’s back. The wetness of his blood and viscera met Fenris’ hand as he rematerialized at the man’s spine, gripping bone and snapping it before the mage had a chance to scream. 

 

Fenris stepped back as the mage crumbled under him. His hand was dripping with blood again and he was  _ exhausted _ . The world around him was rocking as if he were standing on a ship’s deck in a storm. He looked up, hoping to find Hawke staring back at him but saw nothing but the empty camp and the wide eyes of huddled slaves. 

 

Fenris stumbled backwards, wanting to tell them he would not hurt them, but unable to find his voice. He fell to the ground that was still wet and hot with blood and gore as his entire body trembled. Heat gathered in his eyes as something inside of him cracked. Something more painful than any physical injury. 

 

Grief.

 

Tears began to well and Fenris wanted to call out for Hawke. Wanted to see him. He  _ knew _ he was here. He knew Hawke would have seen the cruelty of the Venatori, the complete slaughter Fenris had enacted upon them. The red lyrium using him as if he were nothing more than a puppet.

 

Perhaps Hawke had hated what he saw. Was it possible that Hawke was retreating in disgust, finally accepting that Fenris was nothing but a shadow of what he once was? A corrupted memory unworthy of the love Hawke held for him over the years.

 

“Fenris?” 

 

Fenris opened his eyes, looking up to see Hawke as he emerged from behind one of the tents, blood sprayed against his armor and his eyes wide.

 

“Hawke,” Fenris’ voice cracked as a strangled sob escaped his chest and he curled in on himself.

 

The tears came easily, drawing from a well of despair and hurt so deep Fenris couldn’t imagine how far it went inside of him. His body shook, wracked by the sobs that rattled through his aching body. Fenris wanted to lie down and sleep. He wanted Hawke to kneel beside him and wrap his arms tight around him. He wanted Hawke to turn away and leave him to his overwhelming grief.

 

Fenris didn’t need the red lyrium to sneer at his tears, his own thoughts chided him enough. He was too weak, too vulnerable. His mind reeled back to when he was young, nothing more than a child, and his Master and trainers stood over him as he wept. He had to be stronger, he had to learn to swallow the violence and accept the death and destruction he had to exact.

 

But he did not want to. He did not want to kill anymore.

 

“Fenris…” Hawke’s voice was soft and Fenris could hear him nearing, stepping tenderly between the corpses and unconscious bodies on the ground. 

 

Fenris did not want sympathy, he did not want Hawke to come to console him. He was stronger than this, his grief was private, and he did not want Hawke’s pity.

 

He never wanted it. He wanted this life far behind him.

 

A touch at his arm and Fenris thrust himself away, teeth gritting in a shaking grimace as he glared up at Hawke.

 

“Don’t touch me,” Fenris ordered, both for his own comfort and for Hawke’s safety.

 

“Alright,” Hawke’s voice was a whisper, “Can I come down next to you?”

 

Fenris’ ears pinned back sharply, not wanting anyone to be close to him. Had Hawke not seen the devastation the red lyrium had on those that threatened it? Fenris did not want Hawke to see this version of him, not again. The violence and anger that the red lyrium pumped through his markings were not  _ him _ . He never wanted it! It was something othered and alive, something that others had put inside of him.

 

“No,” Fenris’ voice croaked. He wiped the tears from his eyes, smearing blood across his face as he did. He struggled to stand, limping on his injured leg as he did.

 

“You’re injured,” Hawke said quietly, soft brown eyes noting the blood down Fenris’ leg, the wound in his shoulder. Luckily the lyrium had almost entirely retreated into the markings, leaving only the slightest crystallized ridge on his markings that was slowly chipping away. “You need healing, I’ll get Elias-”

 

“Wait,” Fenris almost reached out for Hawke, but stopped himself from touching. He struggled for a reason as Hawke met his eyes, could not find any besides the fact that he did not want him to leave. “I- I am sorry.”

 

Hawke blinked, his eyebrows knitting high, ”Fenris… what  _ happened _ ?”

 

Fenris’ throat tightened, the hurt and betrayal clear in Hawke’s eyes. He wanted to lie and tell him that he came to take on the Venatori alone, to protect them. But it wasn’t the truth, as much as Fenris wanted it to be. 

 

“They turned on me,” Fenris said, tears threatened to rise and he tightened his fists to try and stop it. “I thought… But it does not matter what I thought. I had hoped things would have stayed the  _ same _ . I gave them everything and-”

 

Hawke’s expression broke as if he was about to spill Fenris’ tears for him, “Fenris…”

 

“I am not a fool,” Fenris frowned at the gore-stained earth under him. “I should have known. I should never have left you. Not again.”

 

“Fenris, you never chose to leave me,” Hawke tried to master his expression, frowning hard as he blinked fast. Fenris was unsure if the racing heart he could hear was his own or Hawke’s. “I don’t believe you chose this either.”

 

Fenris blinked hard at the ground before his ears perked at voices a couple yards away from them. Elias was there, his warden armor splashed with blood, moving towards the elvhen slaves with his hands up passively. He was saying something, but the elves would not understand his Common.

 

Fenris watched for a second before his stomach turned. The others. Cherrelle and Elias. He had betrayed them too. He knew that he was on a razor’s edge with the way he had treated them and Hawke in recent days, and he knew  _ exactly _ what him running back to the Venatori would look like.

 

“The others,” Fenris whispered and Hawke’s face mirrored the frozen fear Fenris felt.

 

Hawke turned his head, spotting Elias trying to approach the cowering elves, and called out his name. Fenris stumbled a step away, why was Hawke calling him  _ over _ ? Wouldn’t the free elf be angry with Fenris? He was Inquisition, it wouldn’t be out of his power to put Fenris down in the way the Venatori had attempted.

 

Was this how it would be? Did Fenris have no allies but Hawke and his Master?

 

Elias looked over and his eyes went wide as saucers at Fenris. He skipped over quickly, staring at Fenris with disbelief and fear as he took in the layers of blood over his armor and right arm.

 

“H-Hawke...” Elias stuttered as he neared, his hand reaching for his casting sword, eyes fixed nervously on Fenris. 

 

“It’s okay, Elias,” Hawke assured him, staring past him further into the camp, clearly looking for where Cherrelle was. “Fenris is injured, can you patch him up quickly?”

 

Elias’ eyes darted to Hawke, disbelief and confusion filling them, “I- He- ‘Quickly’? Why would it need to be quick?”

 

“Elias, do you trust me?” Hawke stepped closer towards him. Whatever silent exchange happened between them was lost on Fenris who, curiously, did not feel a surge of jealousy at their friendship. 

 

“Yeah?” Elias’ face screwed up as he stared at Hawke.

 

“Then do it. Whatever happens, blame me,” Hawke stepped aside, Elias raising an unsure eyebrow at him before turning to Fenris.

 

He opened his mouth, as if to say something to Fenris, but stopped himself. He took two steps forward, stopping as the bodies started, and something in his expression looked sad despite the anger and fear Fenris felt emanate from him.

 

Elias opened his hands, a white glow gathering into them. Fenris recognised the healing magic, and accepted its presence as it slowly trailed through the air as slow as pollen on the breeze. It wrapped around him, easing the pain in his wounds and closing them enough that Fenris would be able to continue on until he had time to bandage himself. 

 

“Thank you,” He whispered, although he did not feel his actions toward Elias had warranted such a favor.

 

“Whatever,” Elias muttered, sad eyes lingering for a second before turning to Hawke, “Cherrelle is looting their tents for documents, she will be done soon.”

 

“I understand,” Hawke nodded and Elias swiftly turned and left. Hawke turned to Fenris, a serious line set in his jaw. “You need to leave.”

 

“I-” Fenris flinched, “What?”

 

“You want to go to your master?” Hawke asked, his voice smooth and sweet as honey. Nothing angry or vindictive in his voice. In fact, his eyes were shining again. “Then you need to leave  _ now _ .”

 

“Hawke I-” Fenris stepped away, the hurt in his body had been eased enough from the magic that he could. He could slip back into the fadespace and sprint as far as he could. “I don’t know-”

 

“You have a compass in your pack,” Hawke nodded, “The Approach is northwest of here, it’s a desert, you will be able to follow the roads.”

 

Fenris was shaking, torn between fleeing and staying at Hawke’s side. His chest ached, his heart thumping so hard he was sure it would burst from his chest. He wanted this. But he wanted Hawke to come with him, even if it was impossible and nothing more than a foolish dream. A childishly, naive desire to have everything be ok. 

 

“Hawke,” Fenris’ voice broke but he would not let himself break down. Not again. 

 

Hawke met his eyes, the intensity of his gaze shaking Fenris to his core and filling his heart, “I will find you Fenris, I will find you again. You wait ‘til then to tell me your decision.”

 

Fenris’ face broke into a smile as a feeling he could only describe as love enveloped him. It was as if Hawke had embraced him and kissed him again, only with words. 

 

He slipped back into the fade, as gently as falling into a bath. The dark ruby of the sun cast red shadows across all around him, the red lyrium that had ripped from him pulsing bright in the bodies it fed on. But it all didn’t matter. Hawke was there. Standing in pitch black, as if he were dipped in midnight. Fenris wanted to reach out to him here, to touch him where nothing could stop him, to brush his lips against his. 

 

But he held himself, turning to the far horizon and sprinting for as long as his legs could carry him.

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick and more light-hearted chapter this time! You're welcome! We are very very close guys.

Hawke and the others arrived at the Western Approach a couple of days later.

 

The previous days had crawled with discomfort and anxiety. After several non-conclusive yelling matches, Cherrelle resolved to not speak to Hawke during the rest of the trek. Elias was left in an uncomfortable silent space between them until he stopped sleeping altogether, shaken by their run-in with the Venatori and continued tension.

 

Hawke did not sleep either.

 

Hawke spent every second reliving those last moments with Fenris before he had smiled, tears and blood stained on his face, and vanished. Had Hawke done the right thing by letting him leave? Had he just said goodbye to Fenris  _ forever _ ? What were the chances Hawke would find him again, what were the chances that it would be the last time he ever saw him? 

 

Cherrelle’s outrage had not helped, as warranted as it was. Her accusations of betrayal from both Fenris  _ and _ Hawke sowed seeds of doubt in himself that he could not easily unearth. Hawke did not really care about the Inquisition. He had no stakes outside of Fenris, and the idea that he had intentionally disobeyed caught root in him. He didn’t really care about what Inquisitor Sabrae would say, he didn’t care if it all blew up in his face. 

 

Worst comes to worst, he thought, he knew how to get out of a prison cell. He was more concerned with Fenris, everything else fell into a gray blur around him. 

 

The Western Approach encroached on them slowly, sand blown in the grass and heat beating down on their necks as they walked. The grey rock that had surrounded them slowly fell away, replaced with great orange stone. Hawke had to layer down, taking off all but his cotton tunic and leather armor and regretting not taking a lighter cloak to protect himself from the sun. Elias sweltered in his Warden armor but refused any suggestion of pairing it down, clearly anticipating more ambushes on the road. 

 

Sand was constantly in Hawke’s boots, in his tunic and in his gloves. He didn’t understand how it got everywhere by simply walking, but he guessed the great hot gushes of wind that sent sand into his eyes didn’t help. 

 

Not long after they arrived in the Approach, they spotted one of the Inquisition’s camps. Hawke tensed as he saw the collection of sand-swept tents in the distance. He knew Cherrelle was eager to turn Hawke in for his betrayal and he knew that she and Elias were expecting new orders when they got there. Hawke would be on his own, at the mercy of the Inquisition, most likely shipped back to Skyhold to face some sort of trial for his misdeeds.

 

But he did not consider fleeing. He was tired of running. And even if he did slip from his companions and the Inquisition, what would he do? Going after Fenris meant facing Danarius again, and he knew he was no match for him alone. The scar across his chest was testament to that. 

 

He figured letting the Inquisition take him was best, at least it would protect him from trying to go after Fenris one last time.

 

The Inquisition camp was smaller than the one they had passed through in the Frostbacks, but felt just as busy. Soldiers and scouts were collected in number, all seeming more attentive and tense than the ones at the previous camp. Hawke guessed it was because of the area was more dangerous, scattered Venatori and templars and phoenixes. 

 

They were waved in as they approached, Cherrelle recognized easily in Orlasian camps. The camp was quiet as they entered, eyes looking up from paperwork and maintenance to stare only for a moment before going back to their business. Hawke chafed from the silence, so loud in his ears for days.

 

“I’ll make the report with you,” Hawke said as he followed Cherrelle’s brisk march to the operations tent, where the head of this camp would be. 

 

“Good, you can explain your betrayal and turn yourself in,” Cherrelle said sharply without even turning to Hawke. “Saves me needing to try and explain your treachery.”

 

Elias sighed behind them, a long breath that became a frustrated groan as it trailed out.

 

“I don’t need to answer to  _ you _ ,” Hawke shook his head, ignoring Elias, “The Inquisitor assigned me to this mission, he is the only one I need to explain myself to.”

 

“Yes, and you will,” Cherrelle shot back a glare as they approached the tent. “I hope he puts you to hard labor.”

 

Cherrelle pulled back the flap of the tent before one of the scouts could stop her, Hawke frowned at the fretting scout for a quick second before following after Cherrelle. He wasn’t about to be prevented from defending himself against her, and she clearly didn’t care who she was interrupting.

 

But they both froze as they entered the tent as Inquisitor Sabrae stared up at them from the desk. He was all wide eyes and vallaslin, ears perked as he looked between them and set his quill down. 

 

Cherrelle started and quickly bowed her head with a proper salute, “Inquisitor! I-I didn’t know you were-”

 

Sabrae shook his head as Cherrelle stuttered, a small smile spreading on his face, “Oh no no, it’s ok, I was hoping we would hear from your team while I was here!”

 

_ Crap,  _ Hawke thought as Sabrae slowly stood. Of course the Inquisitor himself was here, just his luck. But, actually, wouldn’t Sabrae understand more than any random officer or captain? This could be exactly what Hawke needed.

 

Sabrae was dressed in his full armor, delicate chainmail unfurled past his knees as he stood from his chair. Long robes that Hawke recognized as Dalish rustled as Sabrae stepped around the desk and looked upon them as if they were peers. 

 

Cherrelle was at a loss for words, blindsided by the actual Inquisitor before her, “I-Inquisitor, I’m afraid the mission did not go as planned…”

 

Sabrae’s eyebrows hitched, worry plain on his face as he looked to Hawke, “What happened? Where is Fenris?”

 

“He’s gone,” Hawke interjected, ignoring Cherrelle’s glare as he stepped forward.

 

“Gone?” Sabrae’s eyes were wide, “What-”

 

“He betrayed us!” Cherrelle tried to push Hawke aside as she stepped forward, but he was immovable as stone. “As soon as he saw the Venatori’s flag he vanished through the air! He called an ambush upon us and went to join them!”

 

Sabrae was at a loss, blinking back confusion and fear as he looked from Cherrelle to Hawke. Hawke let Cherrelle have her spiel, he had heard it enough on their way here and knew that he could convince the Inquisitor of the actual truth.

 

“He went back to the Venatori?” Sabrae whispered, fingers threading nervously.

 

“We fought our way after him,” Cherrelle continued, fire in her eyes as her voice slowly rose. “The Venatori had gladiators there, full of red lyrium like him. We nearly died in battle against them, and this one-” Cherrelle jabbed a finger in Hawke’s direction, “ _ He _ abandoned the rest of us to go to Fenris, and he helped him escape before we could get our hands on him!”

 

“I sent him away so you wouldn’t _kill_ him, Cherrelle,” Hawke growled as he crossed his arms, “The Venatori _betrayed_ _him,_ if Fenris hadn’t killed those in the camp we’d be carrion bait in that canyon.”

 

“You just admitted it!” Cherrelle shouted, forgetting all about the Inquisitor and rounding on Hawke. “How could Fenris be betrayed by them if he wasn’t intending to go back to them? You think you know  _ exactly _ what’s going on with him, you act like he is the exact same person you used to know but he is not! You don’t have a clue!”

 

Fire licked inside Hawke, a burning anger that had sweltered over from days of Fenris’ absence. “I know him better than anyone,” Hawke’s voice was rough with a rage barely contained, “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them try to kill him, you didn’t see him bleeding and broken. He did not mean to betray us.”

 

“Keep telling yourself that, Hawke,” Cherrelle sneered, her face red with anger, “Just because you want Fenris to be changed, to be better, doesn’t make it so! You would sacrifice me and Elias before you would even admit that the Fenris you loved is  _ gone _ . You should never have been made his handler, you should have had nothing to do with this mission!”

 

“Cherrelle…” Sabrae interjected softly and Cherrelle all but jumped in surprise, as if she had completely forgotten the small elvhen Inquisitor was standing a mere pace away.

 

“Apologies, Inquisitor,” Cherrelle flushed with embarrassment as she bowed her head quickly, “I do not mean to question your wisdom I only…”

 

“Cherrelle, I would like a written report of the mission in your own words,” Sabrae’s voice was even, tempered against the raging fire the two had brought into his tent. “You will be assigned new orders in due time. I thank you for your service on this mission, I know it was a difficult one.”

 

Cherrelle slowly absorbed the words before making an Orlesian salute and leaving the tent, without so much as a glance in Hawke’s direction. 

 

Hawke let out the breath he had been holding in, feeling as if he could finally relax, if only a little. He tightened his crossed arms as he met Sabrae’s soulful gaze, was he going to lecture him too? Was he going to send him away or have his men come in and try to shackle him? Hawke had little to defend himself with, and he found he couldn’t blame Sabrae if he decided that Hawke betrayed them.

 

“Hawke,” Sabrae let out a long, whistling sigh as he cradled his forehead for a second. “What happened out there?”

 

“The Venatori turned on Fenris,” Hawke explained again, “They tried to put him down and he was devastated. I know him, Sabrae, even with the red lyrium. His heart was broken, he was terrified, and I…”

 

“You let him go?” Sabrae’s face screwed up.

 

“I  _ had _ to,” Hawke’s voice cracked. “You saw Cherrelle just now, I had to make sure that he and the others would be safe! He’s gotten so much better, he’s come back to himself in so many ways but there isn’t anything I can do to convince him to turn on his master. 

 

Sabrae stared, eyes wide with sorrowful disbelief. He wrapped his arms around himself, blinking down and shaking his head, “I understand, I think, but…”

 

“This mission came too soon,” Hawke interrupted quickly, he wasn’t ready for Sabrae to put judgement upon him. He had more to say before the Inquisitor turned him away. “There is no way any of us could expect Fenris to be able to face his master this soon. He was brainwashed, even when he began to remember things properly he couldn’t undo the loyalty he has for Danarius.”

 

“Hawke,” Sabrae closed his eyes in frustration, lip twisting.

 

“He is  _ so close _ ,” Hawke continued, stepping closer to Sabrae, trying to press his words and meanings and make the elf believe him. “I can’t force him to give up his loyalty, he has to find it on his own, this might be the only way he can.”

 

“Hawke, please,” Sabrae opened his eyes and glared up at Hawke, shutting him up. “He was a  _ prisoner _ . You had no right to let him go free without my permission.”

 

Hawke bristled, who was he, this  _ mage _ , to decide Fenris’ fate? To act as if he was nothing more than a commodity, to ignore all the progress and all the faith Hawke had and condemn him.

 

Hawke opened his mouth to argue but was silenced by a raised hand, “No,” Sabrae commanded, his voice suddenly full of authority as he frowned hard at Hawke. “I listened to you already, Hawke. Now listen to me.”

 

Sabrae straightened, and although he was nearly a full head shorter than Hawke, he commanded the room easily.

 

“Do you have  _ any idea _ the strings I pulled for you two?” Sabrae started, “Fenris is guilty of murdering the Queen of Ferelden, by all accounts he should have been put to  _ death _ as punishment. But I refused to do that. I chose to trust you, to trust Varric and to trust that Fenris had no agency over his actions. We helped you capture him and hold him, we kept him a secret and we held his judgement in the dead of night so no one could argue against my decisions!”

 

“Do you have any idea, any damn idea-” Sabrae closed the distance between him and Hawke, grabbing a fistful of Hawke’s tunic. “Of what  _ I _ , personally, have been subjected to because of my ruling? You think it’s  _ easy _ being Inquisitor? You think a Dalish overseeing one of the largest forces in Thedas wouldn’t be harassed and ridiculed for pardoning another elf guilty of  _ murder _ ?”

 

“I-” Hawke blinked hard, surprised by the force and ire the small elf was able to call upon. “I’m sorry-”

 

“All you had to do,” Sabrae let go of Hawke, closing his eyes and breathing slowly, “Was get him here. If you thought that there was an issue, all you had to do was contact me. I could have done something. I could have made arrangements. But, no, you just let him go.”

 

Shame suddenly fell over Hawke. Sabrae was right, all Hawke had needed to do was  _ ask for help _ . He was the one who decided that he couldn’t trust anyone, that it was him and Fenris against the world. He never considered the bending and breaking of the people supporting him,  _ again _ . 

 

“You’re right,” Hawke’s voice was raspy, a ghost of the anger that haunted it earlier. “I should have. I didn’t even think that there was another way, I keep thinking I’m on my own.”

 

Sabrae looked back to him, his wide eyes back to the soulful melancholy Hawke was used to seeing. “Hawke, I know what that’s like,” He smiled sadly, “I know you’ve probably felt like that since you became Champion, but it’s not true. You can let others help you.”

 

Hawke sighed, the air escaping from deep wounds, “I can’t imagine the pressure of all of Thedas,” He mumbled, Sabrae’s smile stretched, “But… I think I can fix this. Or I can at least try.”

 

“You’re going to go after him aren’t you?” Sabrae didn’t miss a beat. “I can work with that, but you can’t go by yourself and I don’t think Cherrelle is a good fit anymore.”

 

Hawke groaned, “Are you going to saddle me with some Inquisition guard? Because I don’t think going after Danarius with a large force is the answer.”

 

Sabrae shook his head, a small smirk spreading on his face, “No, I have someone else in mind.”

 

-

 

Sabrae led Hawke from the operations tent, his voice light as eyes turned towards him, “I received report when you reached the Frostbacks outpost on the Orleasian side,” He said briskly, business-like for anyone listening. “I understand you and Fenris split from the rest of the party in the mountains. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

 

The Inquisitor turned to Hawke, a knowing look in his eye, “Did you enjoy it? Any of the mission?”

 

Hawke frowned, what a strange question to ask. But then again, when he thought about it, he had enjoyed spending time with Fenris after years of dreaming about it. Even if it wasn’t perfect, even if Fenris was tormented and lost and there had been too many close calls on both sides. He nodded stiffly.

 

“Hmm,” Sabrae hummed, turning away to pull back the flap of one of the larger tents at the camp. A tent intended as a sort of temporary barracks, Hawke recognized that much, although he had no idea who to expect inside. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when we have time.”

 

They entered the tent, the darkness after the glaring desert sun outside was thick in Hawke’s eyes as he blinked furiously to try to adjust.

 

“Hawke?” A familiar voice cracked and relief washed over Hawke before he could even see his friend.

 

“Varric?” Hawke grinned as the dwarf came into view. Varric was walking towards him slowly with arms outstretched, an expression of pure shock and happy surprise across his face. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Andraste’s tits, Hawke,” Varric met Hawke for a quick, strong embrace. “Keeper dragged me out to this sandy shithole to help kill Venatori, but I didn’t think you’d be out here too!”

 

“Yeah,” Hawke was blindsided by Varric’s presence, the excitement bounding in the expanse inside of him. He couldn’t help but feel guilty, devastated as he remembered the circumstances of  _ why _ he was here. “Danarius is supposed to be around here somewhere.”

 

Varric’s eyes went wide, “Shit. Did you and Fenris-”

 

“No,” Sabrae interjected, scratching at his shaved head awkwardly as they both turned to look at him, clearly having forgotten about him. “They didn’t get that far yet.”

 

“So is Fenris here?” Varric rose an eyebrow, trying to catch up. “I can’t imagine he’s enjoying the weather, I’ve been sweating like a hog out here. At least Sparkler was able to charm the tent so it’s cool.”

 

“I let him go,” Hawke blurted out, like pulling an arrow head from a wound. He steeled himself for Varric’s response.

 

Varric stared, then smirked, “You didn’t.”

 

“He did,” Sabrae’s eyebrows knit apologetically as he smiled. “Fenris is just, loose somewhere I guess.”

 

“He went to find Danarius,” Hawke looked away from the other two, very uncomfortable with their attention. “So he’s probably not… far…”

 

“You ‘let him go’?” Varric narrowed his eyes, smirking as if Hawke had told a bad joke he didn’t understand the punchline of yet. “The dangerous elf filled with red lyrium, who tried to kill you, you just let him go.”

 

“Yeah,” Hawke sighed.

 

“To meet up with the Tevinter magister that filled him with that red lyrium,” Varric continued, hands at his hips as he finished, “The one that  _ almost killed you _ .”

 

“Yes, alright,” Hawke stared at the ceiling.

 

“Alright, just checking,” Varric nodded, “It does sound like the kind of thing you would do.”

 

“So,” Sabrae made a face, stretching his lower lip awkwardly, “I think we should help Hawke.”

 

“‘We’? As in you as well?” Varric looked at Sabrae dubiously. “You want to go and fight Danarius and Fenris?”

 

“I mean...” Sabrae crossed his arms and shrugged.

 

“He won’t need to fight Fenris,” Hawke turned back to the other two. He didn’t like that Sabrae was insisting on helping, he barely liked the idea of dragging Varric away from other matters to clean up the mess he had let happen. “That… hopefully won’t be a factor. And if it is, I’ll handle it.”

 

Varric frowned slowly, watching Hawke’s eyes carefully, “Hawke… what happened out there?”

 

“You know,” Sabrae took a breath, “We don’t need to make decisions or a plan right now. So-” He turned to Hawke, the awkward and friendly demeanor switching to a courteous Inquisitor authority, “Ser Hawke, you have my full support in this matter. I will give you any resources I can, including my presence should it be required. I’m… going to tend to other things and we will discuss this later. Give you two a chance to catch up.”

 

Sabrae inclined his head, a little stiffly as Varric gave him a small smirk. The elf took his leave and the two friends looked back at each other.

 

“You got any ale in here?” Hawke asked, looking around the tent.

 

-

 

An hour or two later, Hawke hadn’t really kept track of the time, he and Varric were still sitting across from each other with their tankards being refilled. 

 

Hawke had told Varric everything, from the moment they had parted ways at Skyhold all the way up to the moment Fenris vanished from sight at the Venatori camp. He told him about Fenris fighting with Elias, fleeing in the middle of the night in the Frostbacks. About how Hawke had tracked him for days in the snow, hunting for him when he knew he would be low on rations. He told him about Fenris remembering more and more, finishing the book and his growing affection. He told him about the red lyrium’s growth after they descended the peaks, the outbursts, the jealousy,

 

He even told him about their kiss in the icy cave. 

 

“It’s… a lot,” Varric blinked hard at his tankard, “As if things weren’t complicated between you two already, with everything that happened before.”

 

Hawke took a sip of his ale, his head pleasantly warm from the drink, “Do you see why I  _ had _ to let him go?”

 

Varric squinted past Hawke, before shrugging with a sigh, “I’m not going to lie, it’s a risky move. But you’ve always been a bad gambler.”

 

“No, it’s not,” Hawke’s chest was aching, the ale made the emotions he had pushed down for the past couple days rise to the surface. “Listen…”

 

“Hawke, I said you’re a bad gambler,” Varric chuckled, “And I was about to say that you’re a good judge of people. And you know Fenris. I know that. If  _ you _ felt you had no other choice, then I think you made the right call. I’m just worried about what we’ll find when he go after him.”

 

Hawke met Varric’s eyes and he could see the deep concern, the sympathy, and even further past that he could feel the hurt. Varric had lost his brother to red lyrium. Varric had nearly lost Hawke before, more than once, it was understandable that he would be nervous of what was to come. Hawke would have to be a fool to not take that into account.

 

“You don’t need to follow me,” Hawke shrugged. “I’m happy to go alone.”

 

Varric scoffed, “Oh, right, I’m going to let you go by yourself.” He shook his head, “Listen, if  _ anyone _ is going to follow you after Fenris to try and kill that bastard magister, it’s me.”

 

Hawke smiled, warmth filling him as the entrance flap of the tent was suddenly thrown back, a wave of heat and sand blowing inside.

 

“There you are!” Elias’ silhouetted form exclaimed, stepping in and letting the canvas fall behind him, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I thought the Inquisitor had you in stocks somewhere!”

 

Varric tilted his head at Elias, looking back to Hawke with raised eyebrows, “Is this had elf Warden you told me about? Has anyone told you that you have a type?”

 

Hawke elbowed Varric hard as he stood up from the cot and turned to Elias, “Sorry, the Inquisitor brought me over here to see Varric and I lost track of the time.

 

“Oh,” Elias blinked, his shoulders dropped to a more relaxed posture as he squinted at Varric, “So he’s, oh wow, ok. Should I go or? Wait- what’s happening?”

 

“The Inquisitor is gonna personally escort Hawke to Danarius,” Varric leaned back on one hand, smug smile spreading, “We’re going to go and see what the damage is. Hawke’s not in trouble, not yet.”

 

Elias frowned, eyes darting back to Hawke, “The  _ Inquisitor _ is going to come with us to get Fenris?”

 

“Yeah,” Hawke rubbed down his beard, feeling doozy from the ale, pleasantly so. He blinked, slow on the intake of what Elias had said, “You’re… you still want to come with me?”

 

Elias looked at Hawke like he was an idiot, “Of course. I wanna see this through to the end as much as you do, and I’m not going to let you go alone.”

 

Hawke stared at Elias dumbfounded as Varric chuckled behind him, “See Hawke, you’re not alone, no matter how much you try to convince yourself you are.”

 

“I…” Hawke blinked down at his feet in embarrassment, “Thank you, both of you.”

 

Hawke  _ had _ felt alone for so long. Getting Fenris back and all the circumstances that came with it had only helped him to buy into his own isolation. Him and Fenris against the world. But he knew it wasn’t true, never had been, he had so many friends who had his back. Even the Inquisitor, who barely knew him or Fenris, willing to risk their lives for them.

 

It was overwhelming and Hawke found himself blinking back an ale-aided wetness in his eyes.

 

Varric invited Elias to a tankard of ale, which he readily accepted, and the three of them sat in the tent talking for another hour. Elias was clearly awestruck by finally meeting Varric and Varric was eager to hear all of the unflattering stories he had about the times Hawke and he had spent on the road over the years.

 

It felt comfortable, familiar, and Hawke savored the peace and safety of it. Even so, the friends and the ale were not enough to take his mind away from Fenris. He wondered how far he had gotten, whether he was okay, if he had even found Danarius by now. It was easy to imagine Fenris lost in the desert sands, driven mad by the heat and the red inside of him. Or him finding his old master, dropping to his knees and pressing his forehead flat to the ground in front of Danarius’ feet. 

 

Hawke couldn’t imagine Danarius would be happy to see him, not after  _ everything _ that happened. Not after their history. The thoughts were dark, threatening grief and despair, so he put them aside for now. He wouldn’t know, not until he went to Fenris. He could only hope they would get ahead of him, capture Danarius and have the monster in shackles before Fenris could find him.

 

Sabrae returned as dusk fell, the mage Dorian with him, as well as a world-weary warden that Hawke had not met before.

 

“Oh good,” Sabrae smiled, seeing the three with their half-full tankards. “You’re looking better already Hawke, you ready to talk about tomorrow?”

 

Hawke had drank too much to be very useful, but he nodded as Sabrae and his companions pulled up chairs close to where they sat on the cots. Hawke wondered whose bed he had been sitting on all afternoon.

 

“A particularly charming Venatori gave us some information,” Dorian started, cutting straight to the point as he nudged his chair up close. “It seems Danarius was disavowed by the Venatori, but not before they set him up with a lab in a cave full of red lyrium.”

 

“Not too smart, are they?” Varric grumbled, nodding towards Dorian, “Was he an old friend of your? The one who told you?”

 

“Why yes,” Dorian smiled stiffly, “As you know, everyone from Tevinter knows each other. Like dwarves.”

 

“We have the location of the cave he’s in,” Sabrae cut back to the conversation, ignoring Varric and Dorian’s friendly ribbing. “It's about a three hour walk from here, a bit out of the way from the main routes. The uh,” Sabrae looked around quickly, blinking at Elias’ unfamiliar face, “Six of us can probably handle it, but the captain of the camp will know where we are in case anything goes wrong.”

 

“We’ve been battling with creatures that are probably coming from there,” The gruff Warden said, pointedly staring at the ground as he wrung his hands. “Like the templars, full of that red lyrium, but clearly slaves.”

 

“We fought some at a Venatori camp,” Elias added, his voice strong despite the nervous glances he was shooting to these much higher-ranked people, “Gladiators, but corrupted by lyrium. Different from Fenris though,” he shot Hawke a nervous glance. “Much different. You think Danarius is making them?”

 

Hawke groaned, “Yeah, probably.”

 

Hawke wondered what Fenris would think of Danarius experimenting on other slaves, if he would see the horror of what happened to him when it was reflected for him in another. 

 

“Hawke,” Sabrae pulled his attention, the elf’s hands hands pressing together as he leaned towards him. “You told me earlier that Fenris was still loyal to Danarius, what are the chances we will have to fight him tomorrow.”

 

The question came to Hawke like a blow as everyone turned to look at him. He stammered for a second, trying to figure out how to explain to strangers what Fenris had been through, how he couldn’t be blamed if he did try and fight them. How would he ensure these people were safe, and that Fenris wouldn’t be harmed? 

 

What were the chances?

 

“What if,” Varric put an hand against Hawke’s arm as he looked to the others, “Hawke and I take point in the cave, while the rest of you cover us from the outside. The caves around here are tiny, any guards he has will be outside, and the place is full of lyrium anyways. It’ll be safer if we have smaller numbers head in.”

 

Sabrae squinted, dubious but considering, “That doesn’t answer my question.”

 

“I’ll handle Fenris,” Hawke nodded to himself, “If it comes to… I’ll handle it. Your priority should be the guards and capturing Danarius.”

 

The group was silent, Hawke could feel the weight of the knowing, sympathetic looks upon him. The reality of it all pressing down on him. 

 

“I appreciate the  _ romance _ in your sentiment but…” Dorian’s voice broke the silence, “I do recall saving you from Fenris once already.”

 

“Yeah, you’re not going in there by yourself,” Elias agreed. 

 

“Hawke will take point,” Sabrae straightened in his chair, all eyes turning back to him as the decision was made. “He will call the shots, and we will be right behind him. We will worry about what we will find once we get there. Agreed?”

 

Hawke looked up as the other nodded and murmured their agreement.

 

“Good,” Sabrae exhaled a quick breath before putting on a small smile, “Let’s eat up and get a good night’s rest then, we leave at dawn.”

  
  
  



	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, everyone. I'm posting these two chapters together as they serve as a larger climax and I didn't want to leave anyone high and dry. 
> 
> Please note all the warnings and tags for these following chapters. Heavy warning for just about everything listed in the fic tags. This gets heavy before it gets better, take care of yourself when reading!

Fenris slipped from the fade space and found himself under the blinding glare of the blistering desert sun.

 

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, red crystals shining like massive dragon scales from the markings there. He blinked hard against the light, the red glow from his eyes reflected against his skin before he lowered his hands to look at them better.

 

They were twisted ore and crystal, grown straight from the lyrium brands and spiking like stalagmites. The disfigurement ran up his arms, breaking through the seams of his leathers and wrapping around his skin where it couldn’t grow straight out. He touched his neck, where his collar had once been, to find skin give way to hard hot ridges. He brushed his hair from his forehead, his breath slowly slipping from his lips as he felt three points rise from his markings there, twisting into what he could only imagine to be a twisted horn of red lyrium.

 

He dropped his hands, licked at his dry lips and began to tear at the armor and leather on his arms. He Ignored his shaking hands and the bubbling terror inside of him as he tore at the popped seams, peeling dark leather away to reveal where the lyrium had grown out from him like an exoskeleton. 

 

Fenris’ stomach heaved, sweat rolling down his spine under the sun as the lyrium burned like lava inside of him. It itched for the fade, for the place between realities where Fenris was alone and could run without being impeded by the red rock formations and the sinking sand under his feet. It had  _ grown _ there. He had relied on it too much, trusted it to carry him safely home. As much as Fenris hated it and wanted it spun from his markings as his Master had promised, he had expected it to at least try and help him.

 

But it had heard and understood his hatred, the anger he had directed towards it, and this seemed to be its answer to him. To infect and claim all it could.

 

_ This body isn’t yours anyway. _

 

Fenris closed his fists tightly, crushing the lyrium on his palms to crumble and grind against his skin in sharp fragments before he let it go to the hot sandy wind. 

 

This wasn’t fair. 

 

_ You were a monster before I was here _ , the lyrium growled, too close for comfort.  _ You killed and you served mindlessly and you were already an abomination of lyrium _ .  _ How is this any different _ ?

 

Fenris blinked out across the desert from where he stood atop one of the tall red and orange rock formations. He had climbed it easily as he phased and now was high above where he could take in the entire Western Approach with a casual glance. A natural maze of stone and caves gave way to a vast stretch of desert and boiling wastes. The Venatori had said Danarius was in a cave, doing ‘experiments’ here. Hawke had said he was here too. 

 

Hawke.

 

_ Should have killed him when you had the chance _ .

 

It had been a day and a half, perhaps two days, since Fenris had fled the Venatori camp. Time was difficult when he was constantly slipping in and out of reality. He had not stopped to sleep, had not eaten and his flask was dry. 

 

A hot gust of wind battered against him at this height and he crouched down low, grabbing at stone as the red lyrium cracked and grew longer. It rooted to it, pulsing and pumping almost organically as it formed against the stone. Escaping, taking root and infecting. Fenris tried to let go but was attached, he picked up a shard of rock with his free hand and chipped away at the red until he was freed.

 

_ You will never be free. No one is free. Especially a slave like you. _

 

Fenris hit the rock into the palm of his hand, red lyrium crackling and falling away as blood beaded from the scrapes the rock left. He closed his fist again, letting the wounds sting as he looked back out across the stone formations.

 

_ How long do you think that will keep me quiet, Fenris? How long before you’ll go too far, and simply hand your body over? _

 

Danarius was out here somewhere and Fenris had to return to him. He had no choice. No matter how much he had enjoyed his turn at freedom, no matter how much his heart ached and longed for Hawke, he  _ had _ to return to his Master. 

 

_ It’s too late for you Fenris, do you think he would accept you back as you are now? You betrayed him, turned against him, and now you have the heart of a wild elf. Your devotion is tainted. You will only bring him dishonor, disappointment. But… perhaps there is honor in a disrespectful creature like you bringing yourself to his side again, so he may put you out of your misery. _

 

Another gust of hot wind blew sand against Fenris’ face, he rose a hand to try and protect his eyes.

 

_ You are nothing now _ .  _ Hawke sent you away, your Master will never accept you _ .

 

“What do you want?” Fenris growled, his eyes clenched shut against the wind. Distantly he could feel his body shake and his heart racing.

 

_ We want  _ **_you_ ** **,** _ Fenris. Give yourself. _

 

The red roared inside of him, boiling under the surface, and forcing its way from his markings. Fenris cried out as the leathers on his back split, red lyrium spikes growing from the brands on his back. They curved, thick and solid as they moved through his body and out of his flesh. The pain was insurmountable and consumed all of Fenris’ mind.

 

It stopped, slowing as it reached as far as it could stretch. Fenris panted, drenched in his own sweat as his body quivered and shook in shock. His heavy breathing hurt, his back shifting and aching where the new extrusions erected from his flesh. He tried to will it back inside of himself, the way he would when he used it as a weapon. Fenris might as well have tried to will a third arm into existence.

 

_ Give in. _

 

Fenris growled through gritted teeth, grabbing at the column of rock beside him to hoist himself back to his feet and look out across the expanse again.

 

He just had to figure out where Danarius could be hiding. He knew that his Master couldn’t be doing red lyrium experiments without a large collection of it, or maybe even a vein in one of the caverns.

 

_ You failed as a slave, as a warrior, as a lover, and no one wants you _ .

 

Fenris tried to listen for lyrium in the distance, knowing he could sense its vibrations easily, but also knowing it was going to be harder without slipping into the fade space or using the red lyrium.

 

_ You are worthless as you are now. Your time as a prized slave is passed.  _

 

_ Danarius will want nothing from you but the lyrium from your corpse.  _

 

_ You need not find him, he will find you when he wishes to take back what is owed to him. _

 

Fenris wondered if Hawke had come to the Approach, if he was trailing him as he had in the Frostbacks. If he was in the distance watching the lyrium attempt to consume him. Despite everything, Fenris hoped that he was. He didn’t want to be alone.

 

_ You aren’t alone, Fenris. _

 

**_I’m right h e r e_ ** .

 

A glint of red caught Fenris’ eye in the distance, vanishing as he turned to set his eyes on it. He listened, stilled and tried to sense what he had just seen. The sun beat down on him and he pushed sweat-damp hair back from his eyes, accidentally hitting the white-hot horn of lyrium there. 

 

Wait-

 

There. Fenris narrowed his eyes towards one of the larger formations in the distance, his heart beating against his chest as he could just hear the distant, whining hum of lyrium. Danarius had to be there, and if he wasn’t Fenris would be able to find his tracks.   

 

Fenris committed himself to movement, shutting out all thought as he headed towards the spot in the distance. The lyrium couldn’t intrude when there were no thoughts to taint. Fenris knew how to quiet his mind, how to focus through pain and move one step at a time towards a goal.

 

Towards his Master.

 

The trainers had beaten it into him when he was young. Focus. Shut out the pain and keep moving. Compartmentalize, close the pain behind a wall so you could take another step and another. He had been too young. Too young.

 

_ There is so much anger inside of you. _

 

A red claw grazed along his mind and Fenris closed it off, even as he felt the solid lyrium crack and splinter against his skin. It hurt. Every step hurt. His body was barely his own but he just had to make it there.

 

Fenris decided against slipping from reality, numbly terrified of how much worse the red lyrium would become with just a little bit more control. He focused, sliding his bare feet down the side of the formation he had perched on. The rock was blistering hot under his feet, rough enough that it scraped his thick skin. By the time his feet hit the sand, close to the ground again, his feet were bloody. The sand clung to his wounds, stinging, and he continued forward.

 

His bones ached. His joints were stiff, muscles spent as the lyrium pulsed and grew. The lyrium was cracking, dust and chunks falling from him as the movement worked them loose. It grew up to try and repair its work, thick as it wrapped around itself. 

 

How long had it been since Fenris had slept? Since he had sat down and rested?

 

How long had it been since he cheated death, since Hawke held his eyes and told him to run.

 

_ You would have died without the lyrium, you could not have done it alone. _

 

It was true. But Fenris would have been dead if Hawke had not helped him. 

 

How long before the sun and his exhaustion would kill him? 

 

_ Just give in and we will keep you alive _ .

 

Fenris shook his head, looking up as he grabbed a wall of stone for support. The sands continued in twisted corridors, abandoned wagons and skeletons of horses appeared and vanished as the sands shifted. Tattered remains of a venatori flag waved where it had caught in the branches of a withered tree. 

 

He was close. He could feel the vibrations of the lyrium vein. It resonated inside of him, the lyrium inside of him and growing out of him singing in response. A gentle, metallic hum. A song he had heard in the distance for some time. Always out of reach. The rhythm impossible to follow. 

 

Every step was agony, if it wasn’t the lyrium jutting from his flesh it was the scrapes on his feet, or the exhaustion, or else the overwhelming heat. Sweat rolled down his spine, hissing and evaporating as soon as it hit the red lyrium. Fenris imagined that the heat came off of him like waves, like a mirage in the desert.

 

Fenris closed the thoughts away. Folding them neatly and pressing them down as far as they could go. All that mattered was getting to where he needed to go. Then everything would be alright. The pain would cease if he could make it. One step at a time. No choices to be made. He was not allowed to die.

 

_ You will not die. Not with us inside of you. _

 

The stone gave way, turning within itself. A narrow path led down into the jaws of a dark tunnel. Fenris sensed the others before he turned the corner. The red glowing in recognition as hulking, massive personifications of red lyrium stumbled around the entrance to the cave.

 

Others.

 

The Venatori had said that there were others. But Fenris had not believed them. His eyes widened as he looked upon them. There were once men, but twisted and grown into something wild and raw. They were unrefined, out of control, mindless drones to the lyrium that fed on them. Flesh and iron melted, fused together and bonded with the lyrium as its glow pulsed calmy. In beat with the host’s own heart.

 

They were too slow to recognize him, to try and attempt an attack. At a distance, there was little difference between Fenris and them.

 

_ No _ , no, there  _ was  _ a difference! Fenris was not a mindless, broken body the lyrium had claimed. These, these  _ things _ , were more lyrium than man. They struggled and stumbled on stumps of red lyrium, where the flesh and bone had given up and corroded away. Their jaws slacked, too far down, set upon their chests as the gladiator helmet remained fused in place. Teeth jutting from lyrium. 

 

Where had they come from? Fenris knew that the templars had turned to the red lyrium, had become monsters but he recognized that these men were  _ gladiators _ .They were slaves. Had they wandered too close to a vein? Or fallen fighting templars?

 

A dark thought passed behind Fenris’ eyes and gooseflesh rose even under beating hot sun.

 

_ Master would never do this. You are special. You are a prized weapon of the Venatori, the only red lyrium warrior under their command _ .

 

The Venatori wanted him dead. Their slaves stumbled and groaned, their bodies melted and stretched where they were encased in the red. Fenris wasn’t the only one. They weren’t the same and yet. 

 

And yet.

 

Fenris blinked past them to the cave. 

 

_ Your Master would never do this _ .  _ The work he did on you was special, a breakthrough. You are honored to display the results of your Master’s hard work and intellect.  _

 

Fenris wasn’t sure if that was true. He closed the thought, like trapping a spider between the pages of a book slammed shut. He could not think. He could not let the lyrium cling to his thoughts. He could not let the pain win. He just had to keep walking.

 

He hesitated going closer to the others. The creatures. But he had to, he couldn’t risk phasing even if just for a moment. He was too weak anyway. He stepped forward on uneasy feet, holding his chin high as he approached them. They staggered, stumbling, directionless but stilled as they sensed him come closer.

 

The lyrium on Fenris lit, reflecting on the sandy walls that surrounded them. The red creatures stared with eyeless faces, nothing human to be found behind the steel gladiator facades. Their lyrium glowed in response and sang. Fenris shuddered as his did too. Vibrating in his markings, emanating out of the protrusions. Something foreign and otherworldly that Fenris could only hear inside of his head. As if the red lyrium was alive, as if they were communicating in a way their hosts couldn’t understand.

 

The lyrium  _ is _ alive.

 

They moved aside as Fenris limped towards them, recognizing him as one of their own. Fenris felt sick at the implication. But he could think of little he could use to try and deny it. But he still had his mind, he still had his heart and his eyes and his thoughts.

 

_ Do you _ ?

 

Fenris ducked into the cave’s entrance. He felt immediate relief as he passed into the shadow, blinking fast against the dark as his eyes struggled to adjust. The air here was cool and Fenris could smell a distant dampness in the cave. He imagined cool water over his markings and groaned quietly to himself. 

 

Sand gave way to cool stone, hard against his aching feet as his vision finally adjusted. Beyond the red haze of his eyes he could see nothing special about the cave. The walls carved from stone, wooden beams supporting the tunnel that twisted down below. Nothing to tell him this cave was inhabited or that Danarius had ever come here. 

 

But he could sense the lyrium within. And he had to check. At the very least he could find a safe place to rest, out of the sun, protected by the abominations that guarded the entrance. What would they be guarding if there was no one inside? Were they just lost and too mindless to roam any further?

 

If that was what the lyrium wished to do to him he would never allow it.

 

_ How cute. You are a slave, you have no choice what happens to you or to your body.  _

 

Fenris was not a slave to the red lyrium.

 

_ How can you be so sure? _

 

Fenris continued to stumble through the cave, feet tender and body protesting each movement and breath. It twisted and winded deeper and deeper, only the light from the lyrium guiding his steps. It gave the caves a foreboding feeling, the shifting red light and every step taking him deeper and deeper. 

 

He thought of the Deep Roads. He hadn’t remembered them when he read that part of the book but being here brought it into the light. He remembered the red lyrium there. The creatures they had encountered. Hawke’s sister falling as her veins turned dark.

 

_ Why would you have gone into the Deep Roads? You are not a warden, your Master would never have allowed it. Just another story to confuse you, Fenris, Hawke and the dwarf were lying to you. You swallowed up their fantasy because you are weak, because you foolishly desire to be something more than you are _ .

 

Fenris stopped thinking about the Deep Roads. He thought about Danarius, his Master, and hoped that he would find him at the end of the tunnel. Fenris wanted- He wanted-

 

What did he want?

 

There was a voice, someone talking from deeper in the cave. Fenris could hear the low hum of lyrium beyond, somehow knew the twisting tunnel would give to a large cavern up ahead. Someone was down there with it, they were speaking with someone.

 

Fenris stumbled a bit faster. If it wasn’t Danarius it was a threat. Fenris was too weak to fight, but he knew the lyrium would protect him even if he didn’t fight. He just could not be caught unaware and vulnerable. 

 

His hands slid along the wall, supporting him as he came to an inset doorway in the stone. He could see the glow of red lyrium on the floor beyond it. The voice continued, muttering away without response and Fenris’ ears twitched as he tried to make out the words. The lyrium was too loud, he felt as if he were submerged in water, the only sounds that of water moving around him. Or in this case, lyrium.

 

“Who’s there?” 

 

Fenris stilled. His eyes wide and heart racing.  _ Danarius _ . It was his Master.

 

His hands were sweating, he was lightheaded all of a sudden and a terrible pain swelled in his chest. Something shaking and wild consumed him where the red lyrium could not. Shivering, unraveled but frozen like a rabbit in the grass before a pack of wolves. 

 

No that couldn’t be it. No. Fenris was just-

 

He was scared.

 

“Cursed things, I told them to stay outside-” Danarius muttered in Tevene, footsteps echoing beyond the open doorway.

 

What would his Master say when he saw him? Fenris had been lost, stolen, he had done so many things that would earn him punishment. How many floggings would he receive if Danarius knew all of it? If he had heard about Hawke, if he knew, what would he say, what would he do?

 

Why had Fenris returned?

 

_ Why have you returned? Because this is where you belong. You are a good and loyal slave. _

 

Fenris willed himself to step forward, to present himself to his Master. His body hurt anew, the thoughts and fears magnifying the pain and exhaustion in his body as he stumbled towards the door. 

 

Danarius would help him. He would heal Fenris and he would reverse the red lyrium. He couldn’t let Fenris become a mindless shuffling abomination like the creatures outside of the cave. His Master  _ loved _ him. No one else would help him, no one else cared for him like his Master did.

 

Fenris stopped.

 

He thought of Hawke.

 

Danarius appeared at the door and they locked eyes. His eyes were red, not red in the way Fenris’ eyes were, the glow emanated around his eyes in a haze. Like Varania’s had.

 

A lump thickened in Fenris’ throat as his legs trembled and gave way, falling to his knees as the lyrium extrusions scrapped against stone. He had made it. He didn’t need to fight anymore.

 

But he didn’t relax, he did not go docile and limp. He watched Danarius and those  _ eyes _ .

 

“ _ Fenris? _ ” His Master hissed, eyes wide in disbelief as his hands shook where they held the doorway.

 

“Master,” Fenris nearly had to swallow the word, his throat tight, his heart fluttering. The lyrium crackling as he struggled forward on his knees.

 

Danarius’ expression changed. His eyes darted past Fenris, up the winding tunnel he had wandered down and back to Fenris. He took in Fenris’ unfamiliar armor, the shreds where the lyrium had forced its way through it. Fenris trembled, remembering his collar was gone, his lock lost from the battle at the Venatori camp. 

 

“What happened?” Danarius asked, voice rough. He cursed as he took a hesitant step toward Fenris. “Are you alone? How did you find me?”

 

Fenris winced at the ground, exhaustion raking his body, why was his Master asking such questions? But, of course, it was Fenris’ fault he had been taken. Danarius had every right to demand answers, of where he had gone, of what tore Fenris from his side, on whether Fenris was just bait...

 

...To catch him, like Hawke wanted. Fenris could never have let Hawke do that, not to his Master. Fenris would have killed them all before letting them lay a hand against his Master. He would have, he- he would have- 

 

_ You would be too weak to kill Hawke _ .

 

Was that really so bad?

 

“Master-” Fenris croaked, his voice failing him at the thought of violence. “It  _ hurts _ , please-”

 

A pause. Danarius watched him for a moment, drumming his fingers against the doorframe as he looked up the tunnel again. Finally, he stepped forward, tattered and sun-bleached robes rustling against the cool stone in front of Fenris before Danarius knelt to one knee.

 

His red eyes gave Fenris an analytical look, cogs turning as he took in the horror that had grown from Fenris’ body.

 

“Fenris,” 

 

“Please-”

 

Danarius shifted, a hand catching under Fenris’ chin and guiding it up. The touch was not cold, and Danarius did not shy from the hard ridges of red lyrium there. Fenris met his eyes and felt something inside of him quiver and shake as his Master stared into him. 

 

“Are you still in there, pet?” Danarius whispered.

 

Fenris shook, eyes burning, “Yes, Master.”

 

Danarius leaned in closer, searching Fenris’ eyes, “Tell me who I am.”

 

A ghost of some terror long past rattled inside of Fenris’ bones, but he took in a shaking breath and answered, “My Master, Magister Appius Danarius of House Danarius, son of-”

 

Danarius shook him, “That’s enough, that’s sufficient.”

 

Fenris blinked, the burning in his eyes turning into tears. Why was he crying? Was he grateful to have returned? To have his Master back with him?

 

He did not feel happy.

 

“I knew something like this would happen to you,” Danarius said in a low voice, letting go of Fenris’ chin to flick a finger against the red lyrium that grew from his forehead. “Too much time away from me, too much time in the hot desert, hm?”

 

Fenris swallowed thickly, his mouth was dry, “It hurts.”

 

“I know, pet,” Danarius cooed, stroking Fenris’ face as a tear escaped his eye. It was not comforting. Fenris felt cold despite the heat of the lyrium inside of him. “I will ease what I can, then we can get ourselves out of this pit. This venture was a mistake from the start.”

 

Fenris blinked hard at the ground as Danarius stood and strode away, “Follow, pet, I have my operating things here.”

 

Fenris hesitated. Everything inside of him that wasn’t tainted by the red lyrium screamed for him to  _ run _ . Panic needled where it couldn’t escape. But Fenris  _ had _ to follow, he had no choice, he had traveled across all these strange lands to return to Danarius. He was a good slave. He needed his Master to help him, to free him from the clutches of the lyrium that threatened to overtake him.

 

The room at the bottom of the cave was large, cavernous, the ceiling of it arching up like a massive chantry building. An enormous vein of red lyrium pulsed there, organic like a massive glowing organ of stone, twisted and lighting the large room. 

 

It was loud in Fenris’ ears, humming and hissing, his ears twitched to try and shake away the noise. It rang in his ears at a high frequency, his brain throbbing at its incessence, the red lyrium that grew from him pulsed and lit in response. 

 

It was like a homecoming.

 

Danarius was waiting impatiently for Fenris, weaving on the spot, fingers fidgeting against the operating table. Fenris couldn’t pull his eyes from it once he had laid them upon it. It was a rough wooden table, built from mismatched planks of wood, stained with the deep brown of layers and layers of blood. 

 

Terror caught him and Fenris stopped where he was. He remembered when Danarius had injected the red lyrium inside of him, after torturous weeks of tests and sacrifices upon the same table Fenris had been eventually strapped upon. Horror after horror passing through that laboratory back in Minrathous. The pain. The foreign being that forced its way inside of him. His Master stroking his face as he screamed in agony.

 

He didn’t want to go through that again. It wasn’t fair. What did Danarius intend to do to him?

 

“Master…” Fenris whispered, the word fluttering out and dying in the air. 

 

Danarius blinked, his face hardening, “Is there a  _ problem _ , Fenris?”

 

Fenris nearly flinched at the tone. His Master was not himself. How long had he been here, alone, exposed to the pulsing lyrium that hung above them. His beard was untrimmed, dark circles sunken in around his red eyes. His dirty and torn robes were not even put on properly, hanging off a frame Fenris recognized to be far too thin.  

 

He glanced around the cave nervously. Crates of red lyrium surrounded the operating table, all sorts of magical instruments and tools mixed in them the ore or discarded on the stone ground. Tables were overflowing with scrawled notes and journals, dry ink wells and tattered quills, bones chewed clean and the packaging of Venatori rations torn through. A pile of dirty sheets and blankets were pulled into the corner on the floor, a messy stack of wood revealing where Danarius’ bed and any other furniture had gone.

 

His Master was living in squalor, alone for the first time Fenris could every recall. What had happened here? What had happened to the master that he had adored? The one who loved him and wanted the best for him?

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

“Fenris,” A strict warning rang in Danarius’ voice, Fenris trembled as a chill ran through him. “We don’t have time, I need to fix you so we can get out of here.”

 

Fenris swallowed hard, his tongue dry and entirely too thick as he pushed himself to speak, “I don’t understand…”

 

Danarius groaned loudly, stepping forward and grabbing Fenris by his ear. Fenris winched, the pain shocking his sensitive long ear as he stumbled forward on bleeding feet.

 

“Do  _ not _ question me! The sooner I tend to your lyrium, the quicker we can leave his cursed place and return to Tevinter!” His Master growled as he forced Fenris forward.

 

Fenris was thrown forward by his ear against the rickety and blood-stained table before his Master let go of him. He trembled at the rough treatment, the shock of the force and anger his Master displayed, his lyriumed hands clawing in fear against the wood.

 

_ This is what you deserve. You were stolen, you are at fault, you must make amends.  _

 

It was true. How many things had Fenris done out there in the wilds that his master would disapprove of? How would he react if he knew? Fenris should be grateful that Danarius would take him back at all, that he would consider bringing him back to Tevinter.

 

_ Tevinter _ . The word echoed hollowly in Fenris’ mind. A dread filled the empty space, thick and consuming. He did not want to go back to Tevinter. Why? Why did he not want to return? It was his homeland, where his master owned a grand estate and held good standing. It was his home it was… It was so far. Across sea and land weeks and  _ weeks _ away. Away from here. Away from-

 

Danarius snapped a finger impatiently and Fenris scrambled onto the table. He did not know how he would lie upon it, the red spines from his back preventing him from anything like that. His Master seemed to notice this at the same time, grabbing at Fenris’ arms to turn him so his legs hung off the side of the table as he face his Master. 

 

“This lyrium has  _ ruined _ you,” Danarius spat, shooting a dangerous look at Fenris before stepping away to dig through the crates of lyrium and tools. “You used to be a pretty thing to look at, but look at you now. Nothing more than a disfigured abomination.”

 

Shame rolled through Fenris as he hung his head. It was true, wasn’t it? His master had been displeased with him for so long. But, it wasn’t his fault, was it? He had not chosen this. He had done everything that was asked - no, demanded - of him. Why did he feel guilty? Why did he feel so…

 

Danarius turned around, a sharp sliver instrument in one hand and a handful of magical components in the other, “It’s a shame. If we didn’t have so far to travel I would take it out of you now, it’s been a while since I was able to use anything besides my hand to pleasure myself.”

 

Fenris felt sick. His body tense as his Master returned to him, dropping what he was holding on the table to yank and prod at his body. Fenris didn’t want him anywhere  _ near  _ him. He felt sick, his stomach turning but he knew there was nothing it could force out of him. Danarius was inspecting the lyrium, huffing and cursing as he shoved Fenris this way and that. Fenris was shaking and he hoped his Master would not notice.

 

“You cannot take it out now?” Fenris asked, the thought escaping him before he could stop himself. 

 

Danarius moved back into sight, eyes narrowed with a rage burning behind the red haze, “ _ Excuse _ me?”

 

“Apologies-” Fenris was cut off by a hard slap, the force nearly knocking him from the table, stronger than any reprimand his master had ever doled out.

 

It stung as Fenris clapped a lyrium jeweled hand to his cheek, his breath coming in fast and harsh as he clawed at the table’s edge and tried to right himself. He looked up at his Master through tousled strands of white hair, fear pumping through his veins.

 

“Fenris I-” Danarius started and stopped, setting his jaw before turning and swatting a glass instrument from a nearby table to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces as Danarius groaned and rubbed at his face, misery and frustration overcoming him. “I  _ know _ how it must be hurting you, I know that it must have been hard to come and find me. I can appreciate that, only  _ you _ would be able to withstand this and still come back.”

 

Fenris cowered as Danarius stepped back towards him, confused and terrified of what would happen next. He hated the fear, the weakness that was beating his body like a drum. He was receiving  _ praise _ and he couldn’t uncurl himself from his pitiful position on the table, trembling and aching and wishing that he was anywhere but  _ here _ .

 

Danarius cupped his face, prying it up to meet his gaze, Fenris couldn’t take his eyes off the floor just under his dangling feet. 

 

“What did they do to you, pet?” His Master almost sounded sweet, caring, but it rung false deep inside of Fenris. It was an act. He knew it somehow. Why was Danarius acting this way? “What terrible torture did you endure for me this time, hmm? Did you tell them anything about me? Are they coming for us? I need you to protect me Fenris, I can’t be alone like this any longer. You will tell me everything and get me out of here, then I can reward you, I can remove it all. I can restore you, I promise.”

 

Fenris pulled his eyes up to meet his Master, his eyes welling, the constant buzzing of the lyrium in the room deafening in his ears. He wanted it all to stop. It was supposed to make sense when he returned. He was supposed to be safe and happy. His master was supposed to make everything that hurt and confused and tormented him vanish.

 

He didn’t want to be here. He did not want this.

 

But he wanted the red lyrium gone.

 

Fenris nodded stiffly, swallowing back all the protests and questions that burned inside of him, “Yes, master, I will protect you.”

 

“That’s my boy! That’s my good, sweet elf,” Danarius smiled and Fenris felt something inside of him wither where once he would have bloomed. “I know you’re in pain. I know. You can tell everything once we get this excess lyrium off of you.”

 

Fenris let out a shaky, broken breath as Danarius stepped away to collect his things again. This felt wrong. Instinctively, like the way the fade space felt, he knew he was not supposed to be here. It was not supposed to be like this. All his expectations had turned to ashes, crumbling as he scrambled to try and pick them up to remember what they once were.

 

“I’ll pull the excess out,” Danarius spoke as he rounded the table, his uncaring hands prodding and running along the spikes of lyrium that protruded from Fenris. “It’s clear that misuse and the lack of proper maintenance have caused what we are seeing here. The real challenge will be to see how we can contain the lyrium that is torn out. Poor thing would probably have died if he didn’t get here when he did.” 

 

He spoke as if he were outlining an experiment to one of his apprentices who would scribe all the notes for him. But there was no one else here. The isolation of it, the extreme loneliness crawled under Fenris’ skin. Danarius would not imagine actually  _ talking _ to Fenris about what was happening, not like that. No, it was like Fenris was not here, as if he were nothing more than an object.

 

The thought echoed deep inside of him and a spark lit. Something bright and hot and livid in the dark. The lyrium crept around it, growling and drooling from its great maw.

 

_ This is what you wanted. You fought to get here. Don’t be ungrateful now- _

 

The lyrium was interrupted by white hot pain. Blistering pain and Fenris screamed in agony. Danarius carved into the red lyrium, blade sinking through it and catching in flesh somewhere on Fenris’ back. A hand grabbed at his shoulder to steady him, useless attempts at soothing words lost under the buzzing and panting and cries in Fenris’ ears. He felt the red lyrium carved into, oozing and thick and cystralized. 

 

The air caught on the intrusion and Fenris didn’t know what was flesh or lyrium, if either were exposed. His hands turned into red claws, gripping so hard at the edge of the table that he heard the wood splinter and crack beneath him. Something broke away, the pain mounting until Fenris was blinking through sweat, and then it fell. A weight dropped off of his back and he heard the crashing of lyrium stone hitting the solid ground of the cave.

 

“That’s it,” Danarius said somewhere, barely audible under the throbbing in Fenris’ pinned ears. “Once the protrusions are removed I can drain the excess properly. Yes, this is going to work, the lyrium will keep Fenris alive. It’s fine. He will be sustained. I’ll be on my way home soon. Soon.”

 

Fenris felt hot tears streak his face before he knew he was crying. Was this what he wanted? Was this how it would?

 

Was this what he had chosen?


	35. Chapter 35

The operation continued for what felt like endless hours. There was no sunlight this deep in the cave, no light beside the makeshift torches and the throbbing red of the lyrium vein above them. Fenris might have been here for days. It was impossible to tell anymore.

 

Danarius had carved away all of the red lyrium that had grown out from Fenris’ markings. He had used silver blades, a firewood axe and, in one extremely painful instance, a sharpened shaving razor that he had wedged between Fenris’ skin and the solid layer of lyrium that had formed over him. 

 

It was painful and Fenris didn’t understand why he hadn’t passed out from it yet. He didn’t know why his Master had not decided to sedate him in any way, no magic healing, no sleep spells. It seemed like pure oversight. As if Fenris’ comfort or wellbeing had simply been forgotten. Perhaps it didn’t matter to Danarius anymore.

 

Had it ever?

 

Fenris pushed away the thoughts, unable to give them any space to breath as he fought to withstand the constant pain. Danarius had continued to talk to himself, only speaking to Fenris when he absolutely needed to. There had been a few more outbursts, but Fenris felt himself numbing to them, retreating deep inside himself when they happened.

 

The worst had happened when his Master went to peel his leggings off of him and Fenris had tried to stop him. Insubordination, disobedience. Fenris had stopped fighting when Danarius had grabbed him by the hair and threatened to remove something  _ other _ than the lyrium. 

 

Fenris had stopped fighting.

 

It was fine. If he knew what was good for him he would stop questioning, he would stop trying to resist.  _ He _ had returned.  _ He had chosen this.  _ It was too late now. He couldn’t turn his back on his master anyhow. Danarius was clearly driven mad by the red lyrium, despite the guards he swore to himself, over and over, were up and protecting him from any effects. He had been living as an animal in this cave, and who would Fenris be to allow his master to live in such a way? Wasn’t Fenris his bodyguard? His prized slave? He couldn’t allow this.

 

He had to take it, he had to take his Master back to Tevinter, somehow.

 

Thoughts of Hawke had come and gone, swift like the wild changing of tides. Hawke was a ghost, a promise of a life that Fenris could never have, something that his Master would never allow. Fenris was a fool to ever think he could have more than this. And he was just glad Danarius had not said anything about the sword that had been embedded in his back, that he hadn’t searched the contents of his pack.

 

Danarius didn’t seem to be thinking clearly in any way. Fenris didn’t know if this was a good thing or something very dangerous.

 

“Those fools in the Venatori…” Danarius murmured as he cut away at one of the final extrusions, a solid second skin of red lyrium that twisted around Fenris’ ankle. “They said you were taken by the Inquisition, that you were as good as dead. I knew they were wrong. You have survived worse. They said you cannot re-tame slaves that are captured by the enemy and I  _ told them _ that they were  _ wrong _ .”

 

The pain was ebbing into a dull full-body throb, pins and needles gathering where Fenris’ body was protesting for rest. It had been so long since he had slept or eaten, since he had a sip of water. But the turn of Danarius’ ravings caught on something deep inside of him. An unresolved question. An abyss that Fenris could only ever gaze into, never understand. Something he knew his Master would have the answers to.

 

Why had Danarius lied to him? Why did he insist on deception when he  _ knew _ Fenris would be loyal to him, no matter what.

 

_ Why had he lied _ ?

 

Fenris looked away, wondering if there was a limit to his loyalty, wondering whether he was willing to test it. How could he even ask his Master about this? 

 

“They were wrong,” Fenris echoed experimentally, he watched as Danarius stilled his blade and sneaked a dark look up towards him. “I returned.”

 

Danarius was silent for a beat, watching Fenris’ face before a wicked grin spread and he looked back down to his work, “They all doubted me. For  _ years _ . They all doubted me when I was sending slaver after slaver after Fenris.” Once again it was like Fenris wasn’t there, his presence nothing more than a reassurance of his safety and ego. An object who would not hear his words. “I did what I had to do! I couldn’t suffer any more embarrassment, I had spent so much on him, he was my crowning achievement. I couldn’t remain a laughing stock any longer…”

 

Fenris’ chest ached, as if his insides were darkening and rotting as each word pressed on. He knew he had shamed and embarrassed his Master by being absent from his side but when Danarius had spoken of it before he had claimed concern. He claimed adoration for his prized slave. He had wanted Fenris back for him. But this- it wasn’t the case, was it? It had never been about  _ Fenris _ . 

 

“You saved me,” Fenris said quietly, watching with held breath. He never would have questioned his master like this before, he never would have baited and manipulated a conversation. But something inside of him pushed for the truth, the truth from his own Master’s voice. “Didn’t you?”

 

Danarius chuckled darkly and Fenris stomach turned, “Oh,  _ yes _ , I saved him. I knew where he was for  _ years _ , I had men track his every step. I had informants watch him every time he stepped outside, they told me of every rumor, every action. I knew it all. I was owed so much, so much gold and so many good people dead. I deserved him.”

 

Fenris was shaking as he reached for the pack that was lying on the table near him, “You went after him.”

 

“All the way to the Marches,” Danarius spat, leaning back where he sat on the ground as he brushed the last shards of lyrium away from him. “I-”

 

Danarius met Fenris’ gaze, his eyes widening as if he had forgotten Fenris was there. Dread filled Fenris, his mind blank save for the quick machinations of his instincts and trained reactions. He was in danger, he knew that look in Danarius’ eyes, he knew. 

 

His Master stood slowly, clearing his throat and dusting off the shards that clung to his filthy robes. Fenris’ hands turned to white-knuckled fists on his pack in his lap. The table was surrounded by the carved chunks of lyrium that had been a part of his body not long ago. As if Danarius had chiseled him from the red stone. Created him again. Fenris fought to keep his mind clear as repulsion and exhaustion crawled through his skin in equal measure.

 

“Does that feel better, Fenris?” Danarius’ voice was strained, as if he were holding down a wild rage behind it. Holding back a horrible truth that threatened to burst forth. 

 

Fenris managed a stiff nod, his eyes wide as his mind railed against to him consider his Master’s words. Nothing but an electric red filled his head. The buzzing of the red lyrium. The red beast within him was shocked still, glowing eyes staring at the abyss as it formed into something dripping and painful. It was too much. Fenris couldn’t think he couldn’t-

 

He had to get his Master home to Tevinter, so he could have the red lyrium taken away. 

 

He could think then. 

 

He could-

 

He  _ couldn’t _ .

 

“What are you hiding in there,” Danarius’ voice dragged Fenris back to the present and his hands tightened on the pack in his lap. “Hand it over, Fenris.”

 

Fenris’ heart raced, terror racing through the lyrium in his markings at the thought of his Master seeing the contents. There was nothing left inside but a few supplies and  _ The Tale of the Champion _ . It was the one thing that would reveal what Fenris knew. The last secret he had. If he kept it hidden he might move along with Danarius as if he knew nothing, he would be protected. He couldn’t imagine how he would react, what he would do.

 

“Don’t make me punish you,” Danarius warned, tracing a finger down Fenris’ thigh. “I’m willing to forgive all your transgressions if you are good and obedient now.”

 

Fenris’ mind was blank. He was balancing between terror and an undefined misery. He had to keep the book hidden, no matter what, he couldn’t have him know.

 

He couldn’t let Danarius know about Hawke. 

 

Danarius grabbed at the bag, yanking as Fenris pulled it back towards him. The slave inside of him screeched at the disobedience, the disrespect of him  _ fighting _ his Master like this. But the louder voice inside of him, the light from the dark abyss, pushed him. 

 

“Don’t make me  _ hurt _ you, Fenris!” Danarius hissed, magic filling the air around him like an aura. Fenris’ hairs stood on end, the lyrium lighting inside of him as the beast licked its lips in anticipation. 

 

Fenris pushed off the table, wobbling and aching legs fighting to keep him upright as he pulled against his Master’s weaker grasp. The pack was torn from Danarius’ hands, the mage hissing displeasure as he looked up with his red hazed eyes.

 

“Insolent- Willful-  _ rattus _ !” Danarius sputtered as Fenris stumbled back a few steps, slipping on the loose rocks lyrium littering the ground. 

 

Danarius raised his hands, his eyes wild as magic tore through the air, all the red lyrium around them lighting in a distant echo as lightning gathered above him. It was red and white, dazzling and flashing in the darkness of the cave and Fenris’ breath caught in his throat at the sight. He couldn’t dodge  _ lightning _ . His body was too tired to pull from the lyrium, his lyrium more interested in the scattered parts of it that lined the ground, more interested in picking the pieces of Fenris that were left intact. 

 

His Master flicked his hands and the lightning struck. White pain filled Fenris, overloading his nerves and markings as he convulsed and fell. Control raked from his body, the electricity pulsing through him and shattering all resistance he could muster. It rattled him upon the ground, hitting rock and lyrium repeated as his body shook violently from the magic. He rode it out, screeching and arching against the floor until the last remnants burned themselves out.

 

Fenris gasped for breath, his heart beating faster than it could handle, his chest aching at the strain. Exhaustion took over from there, dragging his body deep down as black spots flashed in his vision. He couldn’t blackout, not now, he wasn’t safe. His Master- no, he wasn’t- he was-

 

Danarius appeared above him but he did not even cast a glance in Fenris’ direction. He reached down and plucked the bag from where Fenris had dropped it. Fenris groaned a protest, fingers twitching a need to get up and stop him. But there was no strength, no energy, he could no more stand and stop Danarius than he could stop the sun from setting.

 

Danarius shoved his hand inside the slack pack, pulling out flint and tinder, the small knife, rope and other things to drop them on the floor. As if they had no value. He dug deeper and Fenris curled on the ground, protecting himself from the storm he knew was coming.

 

His Master found the book, pulling it free and dropping the pack as he turned it to the cover. He stared at it, his expression blank. He revealed nothing but Fenris knew he must have known it, anything else and he would have tossed it aside. Fenris trembled. The silence in the dark cavern was only broken by the constant humming in Fenris’ ears, the distant shifting tune the red lyrium whispered down upon them.

 

“Fenris,” Danarius’ voice was stiff, “Where did you get this?”

 

“Master, please,” Fenris began begging before he could stop himself. What other option did he have? “Apologies, Master, please-”

 

Danarius let the book open as he held it in one hand, the pages flipping through the air as the back cover flopped helplessly, “Did you read it?”

 

“F-Forgiveness, please I beg for forgiveness…” Fenris’ voice was a ghost, he tried to scramble upright and could only manage to get onto his side. Every bone felt as heavy as lead, every joint aching as the lyrium swelled and attempted to expand in his brands. 

 

“ _ Fenris, _ ” Danarius’ face twisted into a horrible grimace, hands shaking as he tore the book at its spine, pages cascading from his cruel clutches. Fragments of Fenris’ lost past shredded and falling at Danarius’ feet. His eyes snapped to Fenris’, a wild rage burning inside of them. Fenris flinched at the sight, knowing what would follow, knowing that there was no recovery from this. 

 

“Master I-” Fenris was cut off by a distant sound, a low rumble following what sounded like an explosion. 

 

Danarius’ face fell, the book dropped and forgotten onto the floor as he stared up the tunnel. Fenris struggled to find his feet and get himself upright as his ears twitched at the sound of battle cries, of the low roar of the lyrium creatures at the end of the twisting tunnel.

 

“Fenris-” Danarius turned to Fenris, eyes wide in abject terror. His own anger long forgotten. “You led them here! They followed you! You need to protect me!”

 

Something in Fenris’ head snapped at the whiplash, blinking up confusedly through the pain throbbing his entire body. Protect him? Protect  _ Danarius _ ? After he had been attacked like that? After he had been found out? There were no more secrets between them and yet Danarius expected him to fall into line.

 

Something pulled at Fenris, stiff and as unforgiving as slave chains. He  _ had _ to, didn’t he? He owed it to his Master, for keeping him alive, for creating him. For… He squeezed his eyes against the pain, against the swirling vortex inside of him. 

 

The sounds continued to echo their way down to the cavern as Danarius closed the distance between them, hands wrenching Fenris upright as they glowed softly. Healing light seeped into Fenris, easing every torn muscle, every aching bone, everything settling into a comforting health. 

 

Everything except the red lyrium. It took its chance, absorbing the magic and lighting brightly in Fenris’ brands. Fenris groaned in pain as he felt it stretch, swelling and expanding until he felt it break the barriers again. Rising up above the confines of his markings, crystallizing on his skin again as it absorbed the healing magic to propel it forward.

 

Danarius realised it too, cursing as he let go. The healing magic stopped abruptly but the lyrium fought to release, not caring for Fenris or his Master any longer. It wanted more control, more space, and it would tear Fenris apart to get it if it needed to. What had once been a voice growled in a garbled broken noise in Fenris’ ears, a thousand wolves snarling as they sunk their teeth into flesh. 

 

The sounds from outside the cave grew louder too, clashing of swords and magic as the voices got closer. The red lyrium slaves were falling, that much was obvious, and the red lyrium inside of Fenris was poised to consume him to follow suit. 

 

The red lyrium stopped suddenly, screeching in Fenris’ head as it tried to pull back inside of him. Fenris blinked hard against the red filling his mind to see Danarius with his hand outstretched, absorbing the red lyrium straight from him. He had used Fenris like this in the past, before the lyrium was tainted, draining the magic power straight from his body to fuel and power his spells.

 

Terror burned inside of Fenris at the sight. Didn’t his Master understand what he was taking in? The red lyrium would devour him, twist and taint him into something horrifying and inhuman if he let it. 

 

“Master- Stop-!” Fenris shouted against the rush of lyrium and blood in his ears. 

 

Danarius only pulled faster, draining Fenris’ body of the excess lyrium, as he had planned to do from the start. Fenris felt every magical construct within him shake and shred, the lyrium sinking claws into him to try and stop it. His markings ached but remained, wavering weakly at the storm the magic was waging within him. 

 

A rush of magic slipped behind his eyes, searching for the lyrium like a bloodhound stalking a weakened rabbit. It invaded, entering his mind and shuffling through every thought, every memory, and every emotion. Fenris’ eyes rolled, his mind invaded, as he felt something give.

 

Like a page folded against the wind. It peeled back, stiff and resistant. Until it tore, white light filling Fenris’ eyes as a sharp stab of pain destroyed something built up inside of his head. The floodgate opened. His mind shuddered as he wavered on his feet. Something  _ changed _ .

 

Something inside of him was liberated.

 

Danarius continued to rake the lyrium from inside of Fenris. Draining it and absorbing it into himself as Fenris blinked against the fading red light between them. He felt the red lyrium weaken, smooth around the edges. When Danarius dropped his hands, Fenris could still feel the red beast inside of him, could still see the dim red glow off of his body, but it was depleted. The creature had shrunk against the prying magic, curling up on itself to rest. 

 

Fenris felt light, unhindered, and unsteady on his feet. His eyes rolled, lids heavy, exhaustion pulling him. There was no lyrium to call upon for help, for strength or escape. Fenris was nothing but a weak, worn-out elf. He blinked hard as his eyes blurred, his Master moved past him without so much as a glance, the sounds outside coming closer. 

 

Footsteps beyond, Fenris’ ear twitched in the direction of the tunnel.

 

Someone was coming.

 

“Fenris,” Danarius hissed, “Pull yourself together, you can fight without the lyrium, can’t you?”

 

Fenris blinked around the cave, feeling as if he hadn’t properly seen it before. He turned on his feet to look at Danarius, where he was standing at the embedded door that led to this deep, dark cavern. Danarius-

 

A jolt shot through Fenris.

 

_ Danarius _ .

 

Fenris had escaped him. He had fled him. For years. He had lived in fear, in endless anxiety of him returning to try and bring him back. And he had. 

 

Fenris remembered.

 

He remembered  _ everything _ .

 

He wavered on his feet, gripping at the edge of the operating table for support as his stomach attempted to heave, his brain on fire. He remembered Kirkwall. He remembered it  _ properly _ . He remembered the names of the streets, the path from the mansion to the Hanged Man. He remembered the color of the banners that hung on the walls of the city, the gold of the slave statues in the mid-summer sun. The smell of Darktown, the stench of death that permeated where he could sense stale magic in the air. He remembered Varric, much younger, jovial and making a higher bet with his hand. He remembered Hawke’s estate, the color of the carpets, the sheets, the long reading lessons that turned into something else.

 

He remembered it all. He blinked wildly as the visions and images flashed through him in dazzling richness and color, too fast for him to focus on any of them. He thought he had remembered, he thought the stories and descriptions in the book had seemed familiar. But this was different, the difference between an illustration and the real thing. 

 

What was happening to him? Why was this happening now? His head throbbed as it suddenly felt too full, connecting dots and rebuilding memories and emotions where they had been incomplete and damaged. A flood of emotions crashed into him, filling the black abyss, the painful empty space that he couldn’t look at for too long. He was  _ free _ . He had been free. He had been angry, he had grieved, he had feared and he had-

 

“Fenris, you useless wreck, can you hear me?” Danarius shouted, his voice matching the volume of the footsteps coming down the tunnel. Impossibly loud in Fenris’ ears.

 

Fenris stared up at him, his entire body shivered, as if the life he had been living had just collided with his old self. He was someone he didn’t know, but it was  _ him _ , and it was right. For once it was  _ right _ . He had been living as a ghost in another’s life, living as a puppet in some sick play Danarius had laid out for him.

 

What had Danarius  _ done _ to him? 

 

“Fenris?” Danarius’ eyes narrowed, his teeth gritted together into a grimace of pure madness. A face Fenris knew he would be seeing in his nightmares for years to come.

 

Danarius’ face changed as Fenris met his gaze, as if another man looked out through Fenris’ eyes. A man Danarius had thought he had snuffed out for good.

 

“Danarius,” Fenris growled, his head pounded in protest, too many emotions, too many thoughts and memories that couldn’t be contained. “What did you do to me?”

 

Danarius’ face fell into a mask of fear. The man was, once and for all, completely alone. The version of Fenris he had moulded and carved from lyrium was gone, again. And this time there were no hired mercenaries, no slavers or drivers at his side.

 

In the blink of an eye Fenris was thrown back, magic forcing him through the air and against the far wall. Danarius’ magic crawled inside Fenris’ brands, holding him. The one thing that always gave Danarius an edge, his ability to manipulate the lyrium. Fenris fell hard to the ground, bones cracking as he groaned and tried to get up.

 

“I’ll deal with  _ you _ later,” Danarius snarled, “I’ve remade you more than enough times, there’s no reason I can’t wipe you completely blank this next time.”

 

Fenris struggled on the ground, ears perking as he heard the footsteps come closer. He hoped it was his friends, he hoped it was Hawke. He needed help. He couldn’t do this alone. He couldn’t face this alone. Danarius hovered around the doorway, waiting anxiously as he paced, the red lyrium glowing from his veins through his pale skin.

 

Fenris needed to distract him, to let whoever it was in the tunnel have a chance to get inside the cavern and help him. He dragged himself on aching limbs, pulling himself up by the groves in the stone wall.

 

“I will not allow it,” He growled, his chest rumbling and aching from the abuse. “I will either kill you or die a free man. You will not take this away from me again.”

 

Danarius whipped around to face him, eyes wide and red, “I will have what is  _ mine _ .”

 

“I am not  _ yours _ ,” Fenris chuckled weakly. He remembered it all, the anger bubbling to the surface, well aged over the years he was stolen. The years that were stolen from  _ him _ . “You took everything from me,  _ you _ were the one who stole me. You were the one who tortured me, who took my mind and reset it to suit your selfish needs!”

 

Danarius’ neck twitched, caught between trying to check the doorway behind him and keeping his eyes pinned on Fenris, “The blood magic, it must have failed…” He looked around the cave, blinking at the absence of any other mages, any apprentices to take his words down. He was a ghost of the villain Fenris had feared for all those years, but dangerous nonetheless.

 

“I made a life,” Fenris struggled forward, mind focused on the blade that was still hanging between his shoulder blades. The sword Danarius had neglected to take from him. “I had everything, I could have had so much more but you  _ stole _ it from me.”

 

Danarius’ face cracked into a broken smile, “I took what was  _ mine _ , you insolent elf. I gave you everything, I cared for you, and you cared for me. Remember all your gifts, Fenris? Don’t forget the gift I grafted into your body.”

 

The lyrium lit in response, red glowing through Fenris even though it couldn’t manage much more than that. The blood magic that had bound it was gone, and it turned its teeth towards Danarius. 

 

Fenris remembered everything Danarius had given him. He remembered how young he was when the lyrium was forced into his body, not even fully grown. He remembered the training, the beatings, the long nights alone as he cried in agony at the lyrium crackling in his limbs alongside his growing pains. He remembered the first time Danarius took him into his bed. He remembered the Hanged Man, the magic that ripped through Hawke’s body, Anders announcing his death with teary eyes. Fenris remembered the cell in Tevinter, he remembered his “master” having him dragged to his courtyard, the flogging he took day and night, one for every hundred sovereigns Danarius had spent to retrieve him.

 

More importantly, Fenris remembered what had been taken from him. And he wanted it back.

 

“You never cared for me,” Fenris smiled, eyes flicking to the shadow in the doorway. His chest swelled as he rose his chin to look Danarius in the eye, hand poised and ready to unsheathe his sword, “I remember everything, Danarius.”

 

An arrow shot through the air and sunk into Danarius’ back, the red tail posed above his shoulder as Fenris unsheathed his sword. 

 

Danarius screeched at the pain, the wound glowing slightly as he turned to the doorway. Fenris readied his sword and looked to Hawke. He pushed through the doorway, bow drawn, eyes finding Fenris before darting away to shoot again. Danarius vanished on the spot in a haze of red magic, the arrow sinking into stone. Hawke pushed in, keeping his back close to the cavern wall as Varric and Elias followed. Their eyes darting from Fenris to the empty corners of the room, watching for Danarius to reappear.

 

Fenris watched distantly, as if he were watching this happen to someone else. They came, they were actually here to help him defeat Danarius. It was happening and nothing could go wrong this time.

 

Danarius reappeared, the red glow in his eyes crackling down his face in jagged lines as he lifted his hands to the invaders. A cloud of red filled the room, rumbling as it began to shoot down shards of red lyrium. Fenris pulled all his strength into himself, weak as it was, and pushed himself forward. He heard Varric warn the others, Elias swinging his steel staff in response as a green barrier filled above them, shielding all four of them from the onslaught. Varric loaded Bianca with a handful of bolts, cranking her back and shooting them in a rain down upon Danarius. They sunk into his body, blood seeping into his robes as he continued his magic unhindered. As if he didn’t feel the pain, as if the lyrium he had absorbed was soaking it all up.

 

Hawke found Fenris’ eyes again, Fenris turning as if silently called. Hawke’s eyes were even, searching, a light filling them as he took in Fenris. As if he could see, as if he  _ knew _ . Strength filled him, memory shielding him from the fear and the terror of facing down Danarius.

 

Fenris turned away, shoving the tables of instruments to the ground, crashing and clattering upon the ground, gaining on Danarius as he shook and backed up like a cornered animal.

 

“Danarius!” Fenris shouted, the edges of his voice tearing. His teeth were clenched, grinding. A tension wound so tight that he could snap and fall apart into pieces if he were not propelled forward by his need for justice, for freedom.

 

Danarius vanished again, his body shredded by red clouds as he phased again. Fenris stopped where he was, his chest rising and falling too quickly. His mind unravelling at its edges, the red beast holding him upright although he felt a breath away from collapse. He was going to end this today, he was going to end this  _ now _ .

 

“There!” Elias shouted and Fenris turned on his heel, spotting where Danarius was materializing behind him. Too close to Hawke, who had to whip around, dropping his hold on his bow to reach for his dagger. His hand trembling.

 

Fenris ran, feet aching as they scraped on the hot shards of lyrium on the ground, sword poised. He didn’t need his lyrium to kill Danarius, he didn’t need the red lyrium to protect Hawke and finish this for good.

 

Danarius raised his hand, red magic building between his fingers as he sneered at Fenris, “Remember your place,  _ slave _ .”

 

An arrow pierced his wrist, blood bursting as the arrow lodged itself in the lyrium vein behind Danarius. The magic evaporated as he screamed in pain, trying to pull his hand free as the red lyrium on the vein slowly crept into his wound. The wound gushed blood that quickly hardened into crystallized red gems. The lyrium inside of him, in his magic, breaking out to meet the vein and fuse Danarius upon it.

 

Fenris was upon him in a second, the red lyrium breathing out through his own breath as Danarius turned to face him. Terror filled his eyes as if he had suddenly grown smaller, as if no one in the world had ever heard of Magister Danarius. 

 

And Fenris was no longer afraid.

 

Fenris thrust his sword forward, feeling the break of Danarius’ ribs around the blade as it sunk home through blood and flesh. Danarius gurgled, blood spurting from his mouth as the red glow in his face shone and rapidly began to fade. 

 

He twisted against the blade as Fenris kept it steady, his arms trembling as pure hatred pounded through his body, the only thing keeping him upright. Danarius looked up at him with dying eyes, lyrium glowing from his wound, blood gushing from his torso and soaking up in his robes as Fenris leaned in close.

 

“I am not your  _ slave _ ,” Fenris breathed and thrust the sword home.

 

Danarius died. His eyes rolled back as he slumped against the blade, weight only just supported by the blade as Fenris held it. Fenris’ entire body shook, his breath quickening as he slowly pried his fingers from the blade and let Danarius’ body fall to a heap on the ground. Red lyrium tearing, cracking as it followed him to the ground where his blood pooled. 

 

Fenris stumbled back on uneasy feet, the world blurring and moving too quick suddenly. Danarius was dead and it- it had happened too fast. The man had been too far gone, too insane on the red lyrium. Too far into his own illusions of grandeur that he never, not even for a second, looked upon Fenris with any sort of understanding of what he had  _ done to him _ . 

 

Danarius had not known, even as he died, what a monster he was. What he had taken from Fenris.

 

He didn’t care.

 

Fenris fell, the hard ground jumping up to meet this body as his head hit rock. Stars flashed in his eyes and danced along the glowing lyrium vein above him. It was over. It was  _ over _ . As fast as it happened. All those years, all that lost time and every cruelty, and it was just over.

 

“Fenris?”

 

Fenris blinked his eyes open, unaware he had even closed them. The world was spinning and there were two Hawke looking down into his face.

 

Hawke. Hawke was  _ alive _ . He was here and he was real and…

 

Fenris reached up to touch him, lying his blood-soaked hand against his cheek as his mind reeled and raced before slowing down so he couldn’t hear the words Hawke said.

 

“Hawke,” He said dumbly, the word rich and smooth on his tongue.  _ Hawke _ . As if he had forgotten the word’s meaning. 

 

“Fenris, I’m here,” Hawke grabbed his hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss it reverently. Fenris smiled. “You did it, it’s all over.”

 

Distantly Fenris remembered that there had been a mission, some plan set in motion by the Inquisition. But he couldn’t remember it now. He remembered the letters from Varania instead. He remembered going to the Hanged Man as he held Hawke’s hand. They blended together, Fenris didn’t even remember why he was in this horrible place or why Hawke had come. But he was glad he did.

 

“Keeper’s going to be pissed but-” Varric’s voice somewhere, Fenris blinked slowly as sleep threatened him. “This is the best outcome we could have had.”

 

“Fenris, hey, stay with me,” Hawke squeezed Fenris’s hand and he squeezed back. “Elias can patch you up, we can take you back to the camp, we can figure this out.”

 

“Hawke,” Fenris said again, licking his dry lips, “I need to sleep.”

 

Hawke looked worried, but Fenris couldn’t make out much more than that, “Fenris wait ‘til Elias heals you, okay? Just-”

 

“Hawke?” Fenris squeezed his hand and Hawke stopped, leaning in so that Fenris could feel the heat of his breath on his cheek. “I remember. I don’t remember everything but-”

 

“I know Fenris, I know,” Hawke’s eyebrows knitted and Fenris shook his head weakly. 

 

“No, I remember better than before,” Fenris couldn’t imagine how to make Hawke understand, not with the limited facility he was at now. Exhaustion did not suit confessions. “It’s over. I choose because I finally remembered the truth.”

 

Hawke still didn’t understand, holding Fenris close and Fenris wanted to cry and laugh all at once. 

 

“I’m  _ yours, _ Hawke,” Fenris’ voice cracked and recognition caught in Hawke’s eyes the tinder for a wild bonfire. Fenris chuckled, voice rough deep in his chest, “I’m yours.”

 

Hawke was overcome, his eyes shining before he scooped Fenris up into a proper embrace. His arms squeezing him so closely that Fenris imagined he would snap from the pressure. Not that he minded. He was safe. 

 

He was safe for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its not all over yet - There WILL be an epilogue posted soon with a proper send off for this beast of a story. 
> 
> In the meantime, thank you all for being here with me and reading along. I have a lot to say, so Im gonna keep it short here, but it means the world to me that I was able to share this experience with all of you. ♥


	36. Chapter 36

It had been two long weeks since Fenris killed Danarius in the Western Approach. 

 

It had changed everything and nothing.

 

The first few days were a blur in Fenris’ mind. He had been so exhausted, pushed far beyond his body and mind’s limits that he had collapsed before they could get him out of the dark cave he killed Danarius in. The subsequent days were nothing but a collection of feverish dreams, the red lyrium having returned in him with a vengeance. There were a few isolated moments where Fenris woke and remembered everything that had passed in the last few days, terror and shock freezing him before he fell to the exhaustion all over again.

 

Fenris didn’t remember travelling back to the Frostbacks, at least not all of it. Hawke told him he had spent most of the time asleep, a million miles away from him and the others. The Inquisition had to move them in secrecy as they scrambled to find a way to justify Fenris’ actions to their political allies. Hawke hadn’t cared about that, still didn’t, which Fenris could only see as foolish now.

 

Fenris’ health did not stabilize until they reached the Frostbacks. His strength returning enough that he could ride the last leg to Skyhold upon his own horse, Hawke and Varric close behind him. Fenris hadn’t questioned why they were returning to the keep where he had been imprisoned He thought little of it at the time, there were more pressing things upon him. More things he had to let his mind slowly come to terms with.

 

The reality of his situation took a long time to settle within him. The red lyrium still burned in his brands, although muted by the cold. And though the mages around him told Fenris that the blood magic that had addled his mind was gone, he did not yet feel like himself.

 

He was pretty sure he would never feel like ‘himself’ again. He was not the slave he had been manipulated and forced into being, nor was he the freeman he remembered himself to be. He was changed now. He was a culmination of all that had happened over the past years, struggling towards an incomplete memory of who he had been.

 

Hawke and Varric had tried to test his memories on the road and later back at Skyhold. Quizzing him and prompting him with things he should be able to recall easily. Some memories came forth clear, the images with them in full color and detail to the point that Fenris could hear and smell the associated scenes in his head. Other times he drew blanks, remembered only the shadows of what should have been there. Entire events, months and smaller moments were lost, or too damaged to be faithfully recalled.

 

It never felt how it had in the dark cave with Danarius, when the floodgates had opened. Fenris suspected it would never be as complete as it had been in that moment.

 

Fenris had returned to Skyhold half expecting to be ushered back to his old cell. He had failed the mission to capture Danarius and thus the Inquisition had it within their rights to detain him. But instead, Fenris was shown to a modest room on the far end of the keep. It was a short stroll away from Hawke’s, sparsely furnished but with every necessity accounted for. Also, the door locked from the inside. It was far more generous than Fenris expected and he reveled in the small private space.

 

In fact, he did not leave it for several days.

 

His fate was still in the air, he was still known as the assassin of the Ferelden Queen and he knew others would still see him as a villain. It was best to keep to himself instead of inviting the wrath of those who would not understand. It wasn’t Fenris’ choice and it wasn’t fair, but he could not change it. Besides, he needed the space, the quiet. He needed time to understand everything that had happened and what it meant now.

 

Hawke kept his distance, but was always there when Fenris needed him. He was quiet when Fenris wanted quiet and he was pleasantly talkative when Fenris wanted the distraction. He did not push, he did not expect anything from Fenris. He seemed to be waiting, watching with soft eyes for any clue as to what Fenris needed or wanted to do next. There was a comfort in knowing that Hawke was letting Fenris lead when it came to  _ them _ . 

 

In truth, Fenris did not know what he wanted now. He was still acutely aware that he was not the man Hawke had fallen in love with, and that Hawke was a different man now too. Their shared nightmare had changed them both, and although Fenris did not want to be alone, he feared they might not find it in themselves to be the item they once were.

 

They took their meals in a small common room on the far end of the keep, where their rooms were. It was rare to see anyone else who hadn't come to find them specifically. A few Skyhold hands would visit to bring food and tend to whatever they needed, even if Fenris averted his eyes guiltily at their attentiveness. Elias visited a few times as did Varric, occasionally they dragged Hawke away to the tavern as Fenris smiled his appreciation at them. Fenris was not ready to move beyond this yet.

 

The days played out like this for some time, Fenris spending time alone to read or look over the snow-capped mountains and just  _ be _ . Other times he devoted to thinking, writing notes of what he remembered. On the worse days, Fenris never opened his door. He would stay under the covers of his private bed, watching how the red lyrium lit the darkness under it and tried not to dwell on the guilt and terror of everything that had happened. Everything that he had done, and had been done to him.

 

He had multiple nightmares over the two weeks. Ones of Danarius dying on his blade, the guilt of killing his  _ Master _ eating up at Fenris until he woke up drenched in sweat. He had ones of the time before his mind was tampered with, when Danarius had caught him and taunted him as a whip was worked against his back until it flayed open. But oddly, some of the worst nightmares had been of the times in Kirkwall, strange discolored memories that merged together and twisted as Fenris fought to remain himself. His friends asking where he had gone, Hawke hurt without him, the very stones of the old mansion dissolving under his feet to be eaten up by the abyss that once haunted Fenris’ mind.

 

Fenris had been visited by a couple companions of the Inquisitor over those days. Fenris had turned shyly from most of them, but one meeting stood out for him. A qunari, a huge man with wide horns and a name Fenris couldn’t believe was his  _ actual _ name, had spoken to him with a lowered, private voice.

 

He had told Fenris that it would eventually get easier. But that healing was never something that could be rushed, wasn’t something that would one day be over or consistent. It rung true within him, a distant memory of growing and learning how to be a free man resonated. 

 

Fenris knew he had to learn it all over again.

 

But now, almost exactly two weeks since Fenris had killed Danarius, there was to be a meeting. It was the first chance for it, the first time that the Inquisitor and his advisors were available to discuss what to do in regards to Fenris.

 

Fenris had woken up early that day, before the sun even rose, and waited impatiently in the small common area he and Hawke spent time in. He couldn’t help but worry about the meeting, about what conclusions would be made. It was extremely uncomfortable to have an entire organization watching you, deciding your fate when you had barely any say. Fenris knew the Inquisitor was favorable towards him, but he had already ruined the best chances they could give him.

 

He hated the attention, the eyes upon him. Fenris’ own image had been stolen by Danarius, sullied and made public by the Venatori as something he was not, and now he had to adhere to whatever the Inquisition believed was best. 

 

Fenris wished he could just choose for himself. Wished he could vanish from public sight, from the widespread knowledge of him brought about by his misdeeds and the  _ Tale of the Champion _ . He wanted to find himself in peace.

 

Hawke wandered in soon after the sun began to rise over the mountains, fully dressed with dark circles under his eyes as he nodded to Fenris, “Morning,”

 

“Hawke,” Fenris inclined his head. It was comforting, in general, to have Hawke around. He felt like an anchor, a constant while Fenris tried to work himself out. 

 

“How did you sleep?” Hawke asked, smiling sheepishly knowing that Fenris would be able to tell that he did  _ not _ . 

 

“Fine,” Fenris answered, turning to gaze out one of the windows as a flock of mountain birds flew by. “Who is coming to that meeting?”

 

Hawke hadn’t told Fenris the details, the meeting itself wasn’t set up until the day before and the idea of facing everyone and going through another sort of judgement by their hands had been too much to contend with in that moment. 

 

“Sabrae, the Inquisitor, of course. His advisors, but I know that Leliana isn’t at Skyhold right now so I guess it’ll just be Josephine and Cullen,” Hawke squinted at the far wall as he took a seat near Fenris.

 

“Cullen,” Fenris frowned at Hawke, catching the thread that dangled in his mind.

 

“Yeah,” Hawke looked back to him with bright eyes, the same expression he had every time Fenris remembered something of his own accord. “After everything happened in Kirkwall he ended up here as commander.”

 

Fenris’ frown increased as he tried to connect the dots, to patch up the hole his absence made in his mind. 

 

“Aside from them,” Hawke continued, not intruding on Fenris’ train of thought. “There will be us, obviously, Varric… uh… Did you meet Dorian yet? He’s coming with the leader of the rebel mages, they have some things to discuss.”

 

“Hmm,” Fenris added thoughtfully but unhelpfully.

 

Hawke folded his fingers together, tightening them before releasing. Fidgeting, as usual, in the silence between them. It was interesting how Hawke seemed more uncomfortable in their silences now than he had when they were travelling together, or even when Fenris was still in the cell. Hawke had learned how to be in those situations, what Fenris needed and what he should do to keep himself safe. But now that Fenris was no longer the threat he  _ had _ been, now that Fenris remembered well enough, he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself at all.

 

Fenris didn’t concern himself with it too much, he knew Hawke would need to figure it out for himself. Just as he had to figure out his own issues.

 

One of the housekeepers appeared not long after, a platter of breakfast foods in her arms as she greeted them in her usual fashion and put the covered platter on the table of the common room. Under the cover were steaming sausages, flaky biscuits, and an array of dried fruits. Fenris picked at the food carefully, eating only what he could stomach as he thought on the coming meeting.

 

“Have you heard anything?” Fenris asked, once he had built up the courage to.

 

Hawke looked up from his biscuit, small in his big hands, “About the meeting? Not really, but they are probably trying to keep it quiet from me. They don’t trust me with much information. I think they are worried I might just throw you over my shoulder and run to the mountains instead if I think something is off.”

 

Fenris tilted his head a bit at the thought. Hawke had talked about them leaving before, going into the Frostbacks where the red lyrium would be sedated and where they could be free of the all-seeing eye of the Inquisition. Fenris always shook his head at the suggestion, it wasn’t time for them, not now. And besides, Hawke wasn’t the one living with red lyrium in his body. He didn’t know how badly Fenris wanted to be rid of it and he knew that the Inquisition had all of Danarius’ documents that had been recovered. 

 

Working with them was his only chance. 

 

“I’m going to take a walk, clear my head a bit,” Hawke announced as he stood and stretched, “I’m just going to go around the gardens, want to come with me?”

 

The thought of stretching his legs and breathing in the cool mountain air sounded lovely, but Fenris wasn’t willing to risk drawing attention to himself, “I appreciate the gesture but, I would prefer to be alone for a while.”

 

Hawke met his eyes, his own full of concern as he searched Fenris’. He shrugged, “Alright, I’ll make sure someone comes to get you when it’s time.”

 

Hawke stood in adjoining hallway for a moment, lingering awkwardly before nodding to himself and leaving. Although Fenris had been eager to see him this morning, he felt himself relax a bit better when Hawke took his nervous energy away with him. Simply being trusted and able to be alone and unconfined was important to Fenris, even if he chose to keep himself away from prying eyes. 

 

It reminded him of living in the mansion in Kirkwall. The days he would spend alone within its walls, under the excuse of needing to recover from an injury or having work to do on the building. He would become a shut-in at times, letting himself have the quiet and space to mull things over, or to just be away from the prying eyes and the constant give-and-take Fenris struggled with in his friendships.

 

He felt the red lyrium shift inside of his markings, like a dog twitching in its slumber, and he stood and went back to his room. He kept the windows open to the great wintery chasm on this side of the keep, the freezing winds blowing in snowflakes that slowly melted on the stone floor. Hawke had come by once and shivered, having to wrap his arms around himself, but Fenris liked it like this. It kept the red lyrium sedated and his mind clear.

 

Fenris spent the next hour or so sitting on his bed,  _ Tale of the Champion _ in one hand and charcoal in the other as he painstakingly attempted to note down what he could of his memories. The exercise had helped him remember some details and find where his memory faded, things he could ask Hawke or Varric about later. But more than anything, Fenris found it a productive way to pass the time, without falling into the fear and sorrow that threatened him.

 

His words were shaky, his penmanship having been neglected for years. His new copy of the book was already well-used, his thumb running along the dog-eared pages (he had learned that the term ‘elf-eared pages’ wasn’t a saying outside of Tevinter) as he flipped between two accounts of the same topic. Both slightly different, which Varric admitted was his own artistic license, but something about it comforted Fenris. It felt much like himself, trying to remember between two versions of the truth. Memories recalled within himself and those he only recalled faintly after being told. Together they made an incomplete picture, one he was sure he would never completely sort out.

 

A thought crossed him and he stopped, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly to try and temper the distress he knew would come with it. He was so focused on the  _ past _ , on what was lost. He could barely coax himself to look forward, to the future, to what life he could rebuild now.

 

He couldn’t see it yet, not until he heard what the Inquisition decided to do with him.

 

Fenris’ ears twitched to a knock at his door. He righted his papers and things before opening it to find Varric grinning up at him, “You ready for the meeting, elf?”

 

“No point in delaying it any longer,” Fenris shrugged a shoulder, pulling on his cloak to follow Varric down the hall. He didn’t need his cloak for warmth but preferred to have a hood to pull over his hair and something to hide his red markings when he moved around Skyhold. 

 

“Curly canceled on us,” Varric said as he led Fenris confidently from the isolated hall down a stair that connected their wing to the gardens. “Usually you can’t pry him and Keeper apart when they are both in the same building but he’s got his hands full.”

 

Fenris was always sure he would get lost if he was left to his own devices. He was more occupied with watching the endless strangers that lingered or streamed by, where someone could hide or where he could go if something went wrong. It was impossible to relax in a place like this.

 

“Remember last time we did this?” Varric turned to Fenris with a tight smile as he led him through a remote and empty hall.

 

Fenris frowned for a second before recent memory met him. Ah, the judgement. 

 

“It is nice to walk these halls without shackle and collar,” Fenris said dryly, even as the red lyrium shifted inside of him in the warmer halls. Fenris kept his focus on it, keeping his breathing even as he took the chance to shake the cloak from his body and let in the cool air. “I hope I will not spend this meeting thinking of ways to kill everyone in the room.”

 

“Ah, yeah,” Varric hissed as if soothing a wound, “At least this time we are meeting with better news.”

 

Fenris blinked away from the passing tapestries to Varric, “What do you know about the meeting?”

 

Varric gave Fenris a fugitive look before cracking into a lopsided grin, “I know Ruffles has weaseled you off the executioner’s block for the second time. Hmm, probably more than that actually. I’ll get her a bottle of her favourite wine and say it's from you.”

 

Execution had long been the possibility Fenris had considered. If the Inquisition needed to behead him it would have happened already. Or they would have at least locked him in a cell again, but instead, they had given Fenris a room and the means to escape. Fenris was only concerned about the details of his status of agent or prisoner, and what could be done about the red lyrium. 

 

“Here we are,” Varric announced at the end of a narrow service hall. He had clearly taken the less-traveled path to wherever they were headed, which Fenris appreciated. 

 

The small unassuming door opened to a large yet cozy study. No, perhaps an office of sorts? A large desk sat at one end, papers and scrolls and dossiers overflowing from it to several side tables and the floor. A collection of mismatched chairs were arranged around a low table, a fruit platter and more papers upon it, all before a warm burning fire.

 

The red lyrium moved sluggishly inside of him at the warmth, waking lazily to look through Fenris’ eyes at those sitting. Hawke was here already, watching Fenris closely. The elvhen Inquisitor was reclined in an armchair that threatened to swallow him up as he squinted at a long scroll in his hands. The Antivan woman who had led his judgement was hovering with a smile, her clothes rich and shining in the low light (ah, ‘Ruffles’). Two unfamiliar mages sat together, one woman in shabby robes and a man who was looking at Fenris with an expression of both fear and giddy anticipation. 

 

“Ah, Ser Fenris,” The Antivan woman smiled, turning only to meet eyes with a nearby scribe who jumped up with quill ready. “I hope your accommodations have been comfortable?” 

 

The scribe was scratching on the paper in her hands, the others looking up expectantly at Fenris who suddenly felt very uncomfortable. The red lit just slightly, almost curiously at the people in the room that Fenris had once wanted to kill. 

 

“Yes, uh, thank you,” Fenris stared at Hawke’s boots, his ears pinning back, he didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t even know this woman’s real name.

 

Hawke made an inquisitive expression at Fenris, eyes raking up and down his markings and looking over his shoulder at the fire. 

 

The woman smiled wider, holding herself with all the grace Fenris knew only from Magisters and Marcher nobles, “That is wonderful to hear, I hope you will let me know if there is anything else you need. Now, is everyone ready?”

 

The Inquisitor squinted harder at his reading, putting a finger up for one more second. Fenris felt an odd jab at it, still not used to other elves acting like… well, free men. The red inside of him whispered weakly, and although he could barely make out its words he knew it was something disparaging about Sabrae. The red kept licking hotly at his limbs as he removed his cloak, sweat beading along his spine.

 

Hawke cleared his throat and turned to the two mages, “Can one of you put out the fire?”

 

The man jumped, realization lighting into his eyes as he quickly waved a hand and pulled the oxygen from the fire, “Ah, yes, let’s not stoke up that pesky lyrium.”

 

Fenris frowned at the Tevinter accent but his thoughts were interrupted by the Antivan woman again, “Take a seat, Ser Fenris, we have much to discuss.”

 

Fenris sat in a chair close to Hawke, Varric on his opposite side, as the others pulled their seats up and adjusted themselves for the meeting. Even without the fire burning in the hearth, Fenris was sweating, nervous and out of his element. As Danarius’ slave he would have been standing behind him, at attention but without expectation or undue attention. As a free man in Kirkwall he… basically did the same thing with Hawke, didn’t he? At least it was familiar, he didn’t trust himself to say the right things or fulfill expectations. 

 

The Inquisitor put aside his scroll and sat up to the edge of the armchair, taking a long slow breath before squaring his gaze on Fenris, “So, how are you feeling Fenris?”

 

There was silence as everyone turned to Fenris, he blinked down the elf’s gaze as he answered in a stiff voice.

 

“I am fine.”

 

“That’s good to hear,” Sabrae nodded, as if Fenris had said something much more expressive. “Before we press on, I want you to know that my priority in this situation is to keep you safe. I still believe you did not commit your crime with any agency of your own. And despite decisions that were made without my approval-” 

 

Sabrae broke eye contact to give a pointed look at Hawke, one that made the slumbering lyrium in Fenris rumble with anger. “- I understand there were limited options when it came to apprehending Danarius. Hawke and Varric have both imparted to me, in the Approach and upon my return to Skyhold, that the Magister was in no condition to be safely captured. There would have been no benefit for him to be taken by the Inquisition, driven mad by the red lyrium he was exposed to.”

 

Fenris nodded slowly, his mind wandering back to the time he had with his old Master in that cave. In truth, Fenris had no thoughts of the Inquisition while he was there. He didn’t care that the organization that held his metaphorical chain wanted Danarius in exchange for his freedom. But there was no way that the Inquisition would get anything out of him. The trade would have been useless for them.

 

“However,” The Antivan woman perked up from her notes, “It is a matter of public record from Fenris’ judgement that any outcome, other than the capture of Magister Danarius, would strike the previous deal and new conditions will need to be negotiated.”

 

“Thank you, Josephine,” Sabrae answered stiffly, Fenris breathed a sigh of relief at the woman’s name and filed it away for later. “In truth, and this is off the record, if it were completely up to me I would just grant you the freedom you deserve. But we still have political allies to satisfy who are not interested in pardoning an assassin, as much as I have  _ tried _ .”

 

“I am to remain a prisoner?” Fenris asked.

 

“Well,” Sabrae’s face screwed up, regret and sadness twisting in his hands, “Not a ‘prisoner’, you will continue to be an agent for the Inquisition. Which only means you will need to be accounted for by a handler with regular reports. Hawke or even Varric could fill that position, like before.”

 

“But we would be at the Inquisition’s whims,” Hawke spoke finally, his arms were crossed and it was clear he was much more unhappy with these terms than Fenris was. “I am not interested in acting as Fenris’...  _ keeper _ for you. He deserves the chance to actually make his own decisions.”

 

“Surely you must see our hands are tied,” Josephine’s eyebrows knit by a degree and Fenris could tell the restraint she was using, “We still have dignitaries actively petitioning for Fenris’ execution. Simply allowing him to be released will cause more harm than good. He would have a bounty on his head within hours of leaving the Inquisition and we would have no grounds to protect him.”

 

The mage with the Tevinter accent leaned forward in his chair, a single finger aloft to draw attention to him. Fenris noticed, looking him up and down curiously, as the conversation continued without either of them.

 

“He’d be on the run again, Hawke,” Varric pointed out quietly.

 

“But he’d be  _ free _ ,” Hawke growled, “What difference would it have made if we dragged Danarius all the way here anyway? What would that prove that killing him didn’t?”

 

“He could have been judged for his involvement,” Sabrae’s voice was tightening, his jaw squared as he glared daggers into Hawke, “Which would have  _ proved _ Fenris’ innocence for everyone else. At this point, no one has been held responsible for the assassination  _ except _ for Fenris, so anything we do to excuse him from that crime will be seen as a move against Ferelden.”

 

“Unless there was another Venatori operative who could be held accountable,” Josephine interjected, her hand reaching out as if to soothe Sabrae, “Fenris, do you know who ordered the assassination, or anyone who helped you carry out the mission?”

 

Fenris blinked away from the struggling mage to stare blankly at Josephine. Quintus sprung to mind immediately, as did the image of him bloodied and dead on the ground beneath Fenris.

 

“He is dead, unfortunately,” Fenris mumbled, looking away from the eyes that were plastered on him. He tried to seek out Hawke’s gaze, to try and ease him from getting any angrier, Fenris understood the difficult place the Inquisition was in, but there was little that could be done. “I am more concerned about what was found among my... Among Danarius’ belongings.”

 

“Oh, can I tell him? Finally?” The Tevinter mage spoke up, twisting in his chair impatiently. “I didn’t want to interrupt your passionate argument, but I might have a possible solution to this whole issue.”

 

The Tevinter accent burned in Fenris’ twitching ears, how strange that only a bit of time with his memories back made such a difference. He  _ remembered _ his distrust of mages and Tevinter men more than he felt it, but even that was enough to set him on edge.

 

Sabrae blinked before realization dawned on him, clearly already aware of what the man was going to tell them, “Oh yes, of course, Dorian, go ahead.”

 

Everyone turned to Dorian who sat up with sudden perfect posture and took in a little breath before turning directly to Fenris, “First of all, it is a delight to meet you fully conscious and not in the murderous rage you were in the first time we met.” Fenris had no memory of this. “I suspect that you might not be keen to hear from a Tevinter mage about what I’m about to tell you but, rest assured, I am of a different mind than most of my countrymen. Especially those wretched Venatori who continue to drag Tevinter through the mud for the rest of Thedas.”

 

“Reign it in a bit, Sparkler,” Varric said behind Fenris, Dorian nodded curtly with a tight smile in response.

 

“Right,” The mage continued, “I have been working to translate the notes and journals we found in Danarius’, uh, ‘abode’. He wrote with the grace of a chicken so it’s been difficult, also the lyrium madness didn’t help. I’ll spare you the more  _ personal _ anecdotes. I did manage to find detailed notes about removing the red lyrium from your brands and Fiona and her people have been researching it from there.”

 

Fenris’ breath escaped him as he sat up straighter, “You can remove it?”

 

Dorian blinked as his confident face fell into one of distress and fear, “Oh, not  _ me _ . You wouldn’t want  _ that _ . And, well it’s still -  _ perhaps _ we can. It's a very complicated process that is very likely to kill you if we do not take our time and the necessary precautions.”

 

The woman sitting beside him- Fiona, Fenris guessed- nodded and spoke up, “My cohorts have not attempted anything of this scale before, but we have some of our finest minds working on it with Dorian’s help and insights. It is very possible we will be able to attempt the operation and remove the corruption from your markings.”

 

Fenris was elated, a light bubbling inside of his chest dangerously big. He feared it would pop at any moment, but the thought of being free of the red lyrium was stronger than any feeling he had since Danarius laid dead before him. 

 

“It could… kill him?” Hawke’s voice broke and Fenris darted his eyes to the man’s, which were shining despite the harsh glare he was sending towards the mages. 

 

Fenris reached out and found Hawke’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it meekly. He squeezed, hoping Hawke would understand, but he didn’t turn.

 

“If we do not operate it’s very likely the red lyrium will kill him first,” Fiona pursed her lips at Hawke’s disapproving stare, “We do not take this lightly, Ser Hawke, the ability to remove the infection of red lyrium from Fenris would be a breakthrough for so many others. We would have the ability to restore those corrupted by its influence, or those who were poisoned by mere contact.”

 

“But, but, but-” Dorian sat up, a finger pointed up again as he elbowed his way back into the conversation, “Not only would we need to take our time to ensure the procedure is done safely, we will also need to arrange for Fenris’ recovery. The red lyrium is  _ blighted _ lyrium, and the red lyrium inside of Fenris is likely the only thing holding the blight back from truly infecting him. Once we remove it, the odds are he will be in advance stages of blight sickness within hours.”

 

Hawke dropped Fenris’ hand and stood, Fenris blinked after him as he quietly remembered what happened to Bethany.

 

“And then what? We let him die?” Hawke spat, swaying on his feet, caught between some sort of fight-or-flight response. “Either he dies on your magic operating table or dies to blight sickness?”

 

Sabrae jumped to his feet, along with Varric and Dorian, all ready to keep Hawke there to finish the conversation or settle down any fight that may break out. Fenris remained sitting, eyes scanning the rug under his feet as he weighed the words against himself.

 

“Hawke, please,” Varric interjected.

 

“He won’t  _ die _ , would you please let me  _ finish _ -” Dorian hissed frustratedly. 

 

“Wait, yeah, Dorian’s right this is exactly what we need to solve this-”

 

“How about you all leave him alone!” Hawke shouted suddenly, throwing up his arms as everyone took a step back. He glared around the room like a wounded beast, ready to snap his teeth at any false move. “You don’t think Fenris has suffered enough?”

 

“Hawke, wait,” Sabrae stepped forward, his long robes draped behind him as he raised his hands and blinked up towards Hawke with a soft gaze. “We are allied with the Grey Wardens, we can arrange for Fenris to do the Joining right after the red lyrium is removed. The nobles coming after us for him to face punishment would accept a conscription, he would be as free as he possibly could be!”

 

“Yes!” Dorian exclaimed, “That’s what I have been trying to impart here!”

 

Fenris looked up to meet Hawke’s eyes. He was staring at him intently, his rage melting into a deep resignation that made Fenris’ chest ache.

 

“What do  _ you _ think Fenris?” Varric turned then, eyebrows up at Fenris. “Hawke wants you to be able to make your own decisions, and this is as good a time as any.”

 

Everyone turned to Fenris as he dropped his eyes to his feet. The red lyrium could be removed, even with Danarius long gone. He could be free of its influence, its control, and threats. He could move beyond the Frostbacks without fear of losing himself to it, becoming a walking husk of gleaming ore. 

 

But would he trade it for servitude to the Grey Wardens? He would be freer than he was now, he had seen how Elias was able to change his directions to move where he wanted. How he was freer than Fenris ever had been as a slave, or even as a prisoner. So what if he had to fight darkspawn for them? He would have to continue fighting no matter what befell him. And if Anders was able to skirt his responsibilities as a Warden for literal years, there was no reason Fenris wouldn’t have the chance to do the same.

 

Of course, there would be the Calling, but Fenris would die one day anyway. Better to be as free as he could be until he was put in the ground.

 

“I am eager to be free of the red lyrium,” Fenris looked up and met Hawke’s eyes, “No matter what I must give in return.”

 

There was a pause in the room, eyes going from Fenris to Hawke as Fenris ignored all of them. He was waiting for Hawke’s expression to change, to accept his choice, to stop looking as if it was  _ him _ on trial. Hawke said before that he would follow any decision Fenris made, even if Fenris chose to return to shackles. Fenris only hoped he still felt the same way.

 

Hawke nodded slowly, releasing a long breath as the rest of the room continued the meeting without a response.

 

“I will make arrangements presently,” Josephine was scrawling madly upon her board, motioning for the scribe to join her, “Fiona will inform me when the operation is to occur and how long before it will be completed, the Joining will take place after that. I will make a statement that Fenris has been ‘punished’ to join the Wardens, we will fudge the details so no one questions why he is present at Skyhold.”

 

“Ah, Gods, thank you Dorian, that ties this up perfectly,” Sabrae had his hands on either side of his face, as if a great weight had been lifted from him.

 

“The pleasure is mine, dear Inquisitor. Now if you don’t mind, I still have a novel’s worth of terrible handwriting to try and decipher,” Dorian gave Sabrae a little friendly bow before shooting a smile to Fenris and leaving.

 

The others were wrapping things up as well, standing and breaking away to talk as Hawke stood like an island amongst it all. His eyes were lost to some deep thoughts, his fingers tightening into fists and releasing again. Varric looked to Fenris and inclined his head to Hawke, Fenris nodded and stood.

 

He closed the distance between them, Hawke blinking up to him as they stood close.

 

“Hawke,” Fenris said simply, not knowing of any words that would soothe Hawke’s distress.

 

“Fenris,” Hawke released a great breath, looking around the room quickly before guiding them out of the nearby door. Once they were alone Hawke closed his eyes and ran his hands down his face and through his beard before meeting Fenris’ gaze again, “Do you want to go hunting?”

 

“What?” Fenris frowned.

 

“Hunting,” Hawke repeated, “When I first came to Skyhold before we found you, I spent some time hunting in the mountains nearby, elk mostly. I got gear together for an overnight, in case that meeting went badly.”

 

“Did it go badly?” Fenris tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at Hawke.

 

Hawke looked sheepish, “No, I guess it didn’t.”

 

It was clear how unhappy Hawke was with what had been decided, what Fenris had chosen for his fate. It was understandable, of course, Fenris could see the disappointment and frustration Hawke had in it but… 

 

“Are you hoping to steal me away from Skyhold, Hawke?” Fenris let a smile spread on his face, noticed the flush of Hawke’s face when he spotted it. 

 

“No, I mean, not unless you wanted to,” Hawke shrugged, “But it’d be nice to get out of the keep, be alone in the mountains.”

 

Fenris relaxed at the thought and nodded, “I will join you, if it pleases you.”

 

Hawke spirited Fenris back to their wing of the keep, outfitting himself in layers of warm furs and a thick cloak as he handed off a pack for Fenris. His pack had its own bedroll and tent kit and Fenris smiled at the thought Hawke had put into this trip. It was clear the packs doubled as ones for a backup plan, in case they decided they needed to vanish from the Inquisition, but the thought of being alone and out in the open snowy peaks was more than appealing enough.

 

Before long Hawke had his bow strung, Fenris had his new sword slung on his back, and they were skipping down the twisting staircases from the far wing of the keep down to the lower levels. A rush filled Fenris as if he were living another life suddenly, as if it were just him and Hawke against the world, charging towards their next misadventure.

 

Hawke led Fenris through a back entrance of Skyhold, one that opened to snow and rock where horses shivered in their blankets in turn out pens and men butchered elks and laid out their hides. No one turned to look at them as Hawke motioned Fenris to follow what he could only just make out to be a well-worn trail. The mountain wind whistled in Fenris’ ears and he felt the red lyrium shrink, curling deep inside him for safety from the cold. 

 

The pens of horses, the piles of manure and trash from Skyhold, and the last of the guards passed as they followed the trail. Soon there was nothing before them but the yawning expanses of white and grey peaks. Fenris was reminded of when he ran from Hawke and the camp, when he spent long painful days alone in the snow pushing on and on. But this time, Hawke was beside him, from the start.

 

They walked for a few hours. The snow was deep, nearly hitting Fenris’ knees at some points, and the wind was cold as Hawke pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter. Fenris’ mind was clear, at ease as he watched a falcon glide effortlessly through the air above them. Hawke said nothing, but seemed to be more comfortable out here away from the walls and the noise. It was just them and a simple task set before them, like old times.

 

Hawke took Fenris out to a remote peak, where it broke off into an icy cliff to overlook a low valley where a small stream of water ran through. It was beautiful, and it was quiet. 

 

“Now we just wait ‘til a herd comes in for water,” Hawke explained, dropping his pack on an exposed bit of stone. “And see what we can bring back for Skyhold.”

 

Fenris shrugged his bag off his shoulders, gazing up and down the valley below them, “I don’t expect I can assist from this vantage point.”

 

“That’s ok,” Hawke said quietly, retrieving a wool blanket from his pack and flattening some snow to lay it on. “I just wanted the company.”

 

Fenris smiled, reveling in how  _ easy _ this felt. How simple and clear everything was. He joined Hawke on the ground, sitting directly in the fluffy snow and shuddering at how lovely it felt against his warm brands. 

 

They sat in silence for a moment, peaceful, before Hawke turned to Fenris with a worried eye, “How are you doing, you know, with everything?”

 

Fenris hummed as he pondered the question, “I am fine. For the first time in years, I can see a future, one that I chose for myself. It is enough.”

 

“That’s good,” Hawke said quietly, an edge to his words. “I’m glad you made a decision you are happy with. Everything is still ok with the… lyrium and everything that happened?”

 

Fenris met Hawke’s eyes, noting how deep his gaze was, he could tell there was more Hawke wanted to ask and was too frightened to, “I am managing. I suspect the nightmares will not cease for some time, but I do not wish to burden you further with my concerns.”

 

“Please, burden me,” Hawke smiled in spite of himself, “I want to do everything I can to help you through this, you’ve been through a lot and-”

 

“As have you,” Fenris pointed out, “And this is enough, Hawke. You give me more than I might deserve.”

 

Hawke shook his head, “No, you deserve it all.”

 

Fenris smiled at the snow under his bare feet, melting slowly from the ever-present heat of the red lyrium. He let himself absorb Hawke’s words, let them filter through the layers of armor and hurt and trauma that had encapsulated him in recent years. It was hard to accept. He doubted it would ever be easy, but he wished he could express how much he appreciated everything Hawke was doing for him.

 

Hawke was silent but Fenris could feel something unspoken that hung in the air between them, and turned to raise his eyebrows at Hawke. To try and invite him to ask.

 

“Are we…” Hawke cleared his throat uneasily, “Are we okay?”

 

Fenris blinked at him, “We are okay.”

 

Hawke struggled, “I mean… are we... “ He continued to struggle as realization dawned on Fenris, although he wished Hawke would  _ ask _ . “Are we still… is there a chance for us?”

 

Fenris smiled, even though it felt weak as his heart hammered against his ribs, “I like to think so. I don’t want to be  _ without _ you Hawke, never again.”

 

Hawke’s eyes were wide, shining in the low winter light as he sat forward, “Fenris, I…”

 

Fenris leaned forward, wrapping an arm around the layers of fur and cloak that Hawke was covered in. He squeezed him tight, nuzzling his face close to his cheek. Fenris felt safe, his heart fluttering at the warmth of Hawke’s cheek under his own. Hawke wrapped his own arm around Fenris, large and strong against him, holding him as if he would melt into the snow. As if it was the first time they had ever embraced.

 

“I’m so sorry, Fenris,” Hawke whispered, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

 

Fenris shushed him, pecking a chaste kiss against his cheek before holding him even tighter, “It’s alright, Hawke, I am here now. And I am free.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it! 
> 
> Two years later and The Color Red is finally finished and I can't stop myself from tearing up at getting to end this fic and thank all of you for being here for the journey. From the very start this has been a project I took on as a form of therapy, I had years worth of struggles and trauma I had to get out creatively and found my perfect chance in The Color Red. I have put so much of myself into this story, into both Fenris and Hawke, and I cannot express enough how much it means to see you all here joining with me.
> 
> Over these two years I have gone through many changes, important people in my life have left on bad terms, I have had multiple jobs including a current try at writing professionally. I proposed to and married the love of my life, the Hawke to my Fenris, and I cannot believe how much better my life is now as I wrap up this fic compared to where I started. I have learned so much about myself, my writing abilities, and I have healed so much as a result of this project.
> 
> So thank you. Whoever you are reading this. Thank you for helping push me to complete this monster of a fic and for being there with encouraging messages! You may have noticed that this fic is now listed as part of a series, The Red Thread, and I'm excited to let you know that I intend to continue writing this story. The future stories will be shorter and less intense than this one but will continue where we have left off and explore the divergence further. I hope I will see you all there for the future adventures!
> 
> Also a reminder that I am on [tumblr](http://tumblr.com/rifa) and also have a [DA/fanfic spefific tumblr!](http://tumblr.com/glowyelfboyfriend) Don't heistate to chat with me!


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